Some Ranting, The End of the Blog, and the Start of a New One.

Hello, whoever is reading this. I'm afraid to inform you that whatever shrivelled stump of a sense of humour I once had has decided to desert me - hence no blogs for quite some time. What I did write was probably fairly poor anyway... But at least it can't be worse than all the other arseholes on the internet trying to be funny. You know - the sort of dicks who start Facebook "like" pages, or the pre-pubescent cockmunchers who make videoblogs on Youtube. You've got Fred, Ray William Johnson, Shane Dawson, nigahiga, sxephil, kevjumba, that whore on CommunityChannel, Michael Buckley and about a million other retards.

Here's a fucking hint: talking really fast, then cutting to a new shot every two seconds because your facial expression has changed, then cutting to another shot which lasts half a second and contains some retarded attempt at doing something funny (the sort of things where teenage pricks everywhere will go "lololol that's so random!!!"), then cutting to you making some really shit joke (and you'll switch the shot about fifty times during that joke, but they'll still all be of your disgusting face and shitty haircut), then end the video by looking really smug and telling us you'll be making another video next week and presuming everyone will want to watch because you're an arsehole - that sort of thing doesn't make for a good video. Just a hint.

Damn, I can't go five minutes on this bloody thing without complaining about something.

Anyway, if you still want to read work by yours truly, then you can visit my newer, sexier blog, Bloodied Glory. It's a story, uploaded a chapter at a time - a huge-scale fantasy story based on ancient history. It's an epic tale of warring nations and the geopolitical factors that drive the wars and diplomacy between them.

If that description doesn't grab you, there's going to be a lot of violence and blood and maybe some tits if you're lucky.

I even made a bloody map. Come on.

Click to read Bloodied Glory.

Welcome to Britain

A despairing rant from the dungeon of Europe.


I’m a bitter, resentful, angry kind of guy – an introvert, you might say. Or an arsehole, as you will probably be more inclined to remark. Nevertheless, I can’t help but feel that my sordid state of mind is at least partially accountable to the place in which I’ve lived all my life: the abysmal whirlwind of abhorrent fatuity that is England. While it would be rather remiss of me to attempt to cast all the blame for my sourness onto this historic country, I’m going to do it anyway.

The task of running Britain is usually designated to people who embody the great traits of the British people: ugliness and stupidity. For instance, examine our three previous Prime Ministers:

Pictures courtesy of my wanking folder.

A grinning maniac, an incompetent Scottish accountant and a deeply nauseating arsehole – at least we’ve got a decent variety of douchebags.
The leadership of the Labour party is currently up for grabs, and of the five amusingly ill-suited contenders, I’m desperately hoping that the winner is the wonderfully named Ed Balls, purely for the pun headlines that will come out. For instance, at the next leadership debates, we’ll have “Cameron wipes the floor with Balls”, “Cameron hangs Balls out to dry” or maybe “Cameron leaves Balls feeling small”. It will be glorious.

As I write this article, a very familiar sound is flooding my ears: the sound of rain. If God exists (which I seriously doubt) then England is his toilet. The old fellow just loves to drench England with his benevolent piss, laughing the laugh of a cruel celestial dictator, while the denizens of his realm mope about below, their collective mood epitomised by the mass of clouds hanging above them.
We do get the occasional thunderstorm, during which I like to listen to Moving Mountains and pretend I’m Zeus, Lord of the Skies. We had a particularly fierce bout of lightning the other week – I’m glad I’m not epileptic, or my face would have turned inside-out.
England possesses a perennial coldness – a coldness that suffices in making everyone uncomfortable, but is not quite cold enough to perk up the nipples of our street-going females to a remotely entertaining standard.

How does one traverse this freezing, wet landscape of misery, I hear you ask? Well, Britain boasts a wide variety of spectacularly sordid modes of public transportation. Whether you’re trapped on the bus with the harbingers of the granny apocalypse, or listening to a cab driver describing his hatred for blacks and the council’s inability to empty his bins, you’re sure to encounter a veritable palette of painful problems.
The train is perhaps the most widely-used form of public transport, and it is appalling. A British train journey is a bit like being raped: it’s very uncomfortable, there’s always a guy moaning behind you, you leave with a sore arse, and when it comes late, it’s even worse. I bet there was at least one Jew on the train to Auschwitz thinking “At least it’s not Southern Rail.”

So, England is a bad place to live if you intend on leaving your house. At least we have a plethora of fantastic TV shows to keep everyone entertained at home, right?
Wrong.
British television is composed of some of the most appalling, disgraceful excuses for entertainment one could possibly come across. Let’s take, for example, the Jeremy Kyle Show. The Jeremy Kyle Show is much like Jerry Springer or Maury: morons come on the show to duke it out and humiliate themselves on television, while a bunch of banal bastards sit baying for blood in the background (oh, the joys of alliteration). Kyle commonly attempts to resolve pressing and important issues, as shown in two of his previous show titles – “Hounded Out of Three Homes Because I’m Ginger” and “Why Deny Paternity Just Because the Baby is Ginger?”

Above: The dashing visage of Mr Kyle and a typically hideous participant.

Now, we Brits won’t settle for mere televised idiocy – no, that’s nowhere near retarded enough for us. What we need is a grotesquely angry antagonist to take the moral high ground and, invigorated in his self-righteous fury, scream at the fools who have dared to enter his domain (a role played most admirably by Mr Kyle). While I agree that anyone stupid enough to consent to be attacked by this dangerously unstable maniac does deserve to be humiliated, the fact that the British public are so encouraging towards this lunatic’s antics is worrying. At least there’s a lot of variety on British TV; once I get bored of watching slags slapping each other in Eastenders, I can simply switch the channel and witness Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall eating the carcass of a dead stoat basted with badger semen.

England has certainly cultivated a morbid, bitter little bastard as far as I go, but a brief glance around the rest of the human farmyard will show that the majority of British society is a smorgasbord of cretinism. That’s right, I said smorgasbord. I dislike Britain so much that I’m using a word that sounds as Swedish as you can possibly get.
It’s rather difficult to stratify British society effectively; the closest I’ve got in terms of devising groups is “retards”, “morons” and “fucking morons”. Actually, we Brits have a special word beginning with “C” that we use instead of “fucking moron”, but I can’t type it or your eyes might liquefy in their sockets and proceed to dribble down your horrified faces.
It really would take me all day to describe every type of person that I hate in Britain – a day that I should probably undertake in the near future, as a form of psychotherapy. However, there is one type of person so horrifically repulsive that they are deserving of their own bile-filled paragraph.



The vomit-inducing scourge that plagues modern Britain is known as the chav. A pair of typical specimens can be viewed above, resplendent in the full regalia of their kind. The man on the right sports an impressive cap, as well as high-quality bling – a sign of high status among chavs. From this we can extrapolate that he is perhaps a chieftain amongst his kind. The female is known as a “ho”, “slag”, “bitch”, “slut”, or “skank” - all of which are titles of honour among chav females. The chav chief has evidently claimed her as his “GF” – usually meaning girlfriend, but alternatively “Grotesque Fuckbuddy”.
For those of you who like to venture out into the world to discover new things, there is a simple test to see if you have located a slag. Merely go out on a Friday night, and find one of the many skimpily-dressed and alcoholically-incapacitated females who are out that night. (Expert tip: they can often be found in ditches, clutching empty wine bottles. To lure out a groggy slag, a trail of regurgitated vodka should do the trick.) Once you have found your subject, peel back their battered and slimy labia and see what you can find inside them. If their body contains more semen than the average male, you’ve found yourself a slag!

An anthropological assessment of chavs is another topic for another time, however. It’s about time that I concluded this article, before my negativity drives any of you to suicide. By the way, if anyone who reads this ever does commit suicide, could I just take this opportunity to ask you to do it a slightly light-hearted way? For instance, if you’re going to jump in front of a train, stuff your clothes full of candy; it’ll be like a piñata at a serial killer’s birthday party.
So farewell, dear readers. I hope I have given those of you from across the pond an insight into British culture, and those of you who already dwell in Britain an opportunity to nod and go “Yeah, that’s true”.

My Holidays So Far

Here in Britain, high school has finished but college has not yet begun. It’s holiday time; Kleenex consumption is through the roof and my bed is gaining a near-permanent imprint of my body.

Mankind, the greatest of the apes, is really good at two things: eating and shagging (as such, I consider myself something of an exemplar of the human race). However, doing other things in order to quell the gnawing sense of boredom that inevitably afflicts anyone stuck in their room for several weeks is a task for which evolution did not prepare us.
This article is a look at the ways I’ve failed to cope with boredom and loneliness these past few weeks. I don’t have a lot to do, especially since my girlfriend recently buggered off to another country, so I’m going through a sort-of sexual cold turkey. That sounds like a novelty sex toy, but it really isn’t very fun.

I firstly went to a place called Devon. It’s a rural, seaside place, where it seems the entire population has been infected with a virus that makes them utterly retarded; it’s like a special needs version of I am Legend. There’s an average of 5 brain cells per square mile in Devon, as a brief chat with any of the hideous, inbred locals will reveal. The place I was staying was situated near a town called Westward Ho!. No, I didn’t add that exclamation mark. Some fatuous dotard decided that it would be a good idea to put an exclamation mark in the name of a town. Exclamation marks are my least favourite type of punctuation. Bloody hell.
While I was staying there, I witnessed a guy pissing quite nonchalantly off the side of a boat, and also watched my step-uncle bludgeon a sea bass to death. Somehow, I feel that chugging along in a motorboat with my arse vibrating like a high-speed dildo wasn’t made any better by having fish guts splattered across my lifejacket.

So, narrowly escaping the Retard Apocalypse, I headed back to civilisation, the comfort of my PC and the wonderful realm of dancing naked ladies known as the internet. Settling back into my hectic masturbation schedule, I returned to the mundane repetitiveness of life in my bedroom. Thankfully, my parents have never caught me masturbating… I imagine that situation would be like a Nazi patrol finding a family of Jews hiding in a cupboard.

If there’s one pointless thing that I always fall into the trap of participating in, it’s going to theme parks. Queuing for hours in order to have my guts turned inside-out for 30 seconds is not, when considered with a modicum of intelligence, a very good idea, so I found myself questioning my own reasoning faculties when I agreed to go to Thorpe Park.
Queuing is in itself a very painful experience; while I bring shame to my British heritage by expressing my dislike of queues, I think one has to accept that queuing is especially awful when you’re surrounded by disgusting freaks. And believe me, such people travel in large packs to Thorpe Park; it was as if Jeremy Kyle’s audience had been released for a day trip.

So, it would seem that the eradication of boredom is an endeavour that’s doomed to fail; even temporary release from its miseries comes at a price, whether that’s fending off armies of goat-groping goons or waiting in line with a hellishly hideous horde of horribly horrendous humans. It gives quite a bit of free time in which to think up some unnecessary alliterative phrases, though.

Some people go to extreme lengths to entertain themselves, such as throwing a cat in a wheelie bin. There’s been a lot of outrage over Mary Bale’s recent news story, but I think that woman may well have invented a fantastic new sport. After I’ve finished writing this, I’m going to assemble a crack team of cat-catchers, and try to fill up as many wheelie bins in a day as I can. If you’d like to join the team, or you’d just be willing to donate some more wanking tissues for me, email bangell153@yahoo.co.uk. Please note that you will require at least 5 years of experience of doing random shit that pops into your head, as well as either a written recommendation or CCTV footage of you lackadaisically flinging cats around.



You won’t be so chirpy when Mary Bale gets her hands on you, motherfucker.

Once again, I reach the conclusion of an article realising that there is no point. There is no point to this article and there is no point to life. But let me reassure you, dear readers; I do not intend to leave you on such a negative note. Far be it from me to spread further misery in this already-wretched world. Take hope, for I bring good tidings: I’ll be serving up more of this bullcrap next week.
Now, let’s fuck with some kittens.

P.S. For those who missed it before, check out The Paedophile Chronicles trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cWCfNCCG9rw

I Have Emerged From the Arsehole of the Education System

I recently finished my atrociously long tenure at Worthing High School. After completing a few exams, I will never have to return to that dismal establishment, so I think it's time for a fair and balanced review/rant about my time spent there.

I joined four years ago, and felt like I had been cast into the fiery depths of hell (there is no hell, by the way). I was met by two of the most terrifying individuals I've ever come across: Miss Dix and Miss Beer. The former was a gargantuan beast with skin like a slug that's had a dangerous amount of salt poured onto it, whose bellowing tones and angry stampeding around the corridors was reminiscent of one of those trolls from Lord of the Rings. In contrast, Miss Beer (sticking to the unashamedly dorky Lord of the Rings analogies here) was more like one of those black riders: quiet but incredibly frightening. Her voice was like an eerie mist that pervades the eardrums and haunts one's nightmares. It's the sort of voice a serial rapist might have as he whispers in your ear while dragging you back to his lair. Together, this creepy and horrifying duo was to indirectly terrify me for the duration of my stay at Worthing High; keeping me on my toes for fear that they may be stomping/drifting down the corridor behind me, ready to pounce and devour my entrails while giving me a rant about school rules regarding mobile phones.

When I joined, the first thing that hit me about the school was the smell: the unmistakable smell of slags. Indeed, the school is infested with slags, sluts and whores of every description, whose sexual services can be acquired for no more than a pair of roll-ups and a bottle of cider. There are girls whose vaginae (the wonderful plural of "vagina" there) have seen so much use that they contain graffiti. These battered caves of sexual pleasure, swarming with STDs, have been so enlarged by constant penetration that they could double up as dog kennels - or even better, sleeping bags for whatever poor fellow has had the misfortune of inserting his penis into these dank holes of wonder. They're very skanky slags, as well - the sort of girls who'd consider a Mars Bar wrapper to be an effective contraceptive device... Actually, that sounds more like some kind of nymphomaniac MacGyver - the sort of guy who could make a coil device out of a bent-up paperclip and a pen lid...

Anyway, I managed to make some friends in my form, including Harry Potter lookalike Charlie Gilbert - the future prime minister, Jake Hutson - who sounded at the time like a hamster on helium, Alex Owen - whose head closely resembles an egg, and my favourite midget of all, Alex Nelson, who at the time was horny beyond belief, and possessed a small enough stature to be able to be an effective voyeur. Later friends would include Jamil Ahmed - perhaps the only person whose dorkiness could rival my own, Joe Miles, Matt Charbonneau and James Slater - a lovable gang of ugly, football-obsessed freaks, Andrew Lethby - whose chin is the size of a dinner plate, and Joel Vincent - who likes my snail trail a little too much. If you haven't been thusfar mentioned, I either don't like you or you don't have any characteristics suitable for mockery.
I also managed to find a girl who's willing to come within five feet of me without equipping herself with a taser. It was nice to finally have a Valentine's Day where I didn't sit alone in my room, brooding about the misery of life while masturbating furiously like a gorilla with ADHD (that resumed the next day). I even made a Valentine's Day card out of semen and glitter, spelling out "I love you" in sparkly letters. (That went to my Mum; I just got one from Tesco for my girlfriend.)

The place was also full of wonderful teachers like Mr Shaw - one of my favourite paedophiles ever. Never has being molested in a broom cupboard been such fun! I joke, I joke - I managed to get away before he caught me. Nevertheless, I've always wondered what his detentions would be like - perhaps the naughtier you were, instead of increasing the time you had to stay back for, he'd just increase the number of fingers he used. There was also Mr Millington, a middle-aged white guy who insisted throughout my four years that he was black, citing the evidence that he knows a lot about historical black people, he can cook Jamaican-style chicken, and his wife and sons are black. I'm just sad that I had to leave before he started wearing face-paint to school. An honourable mention to my science teacher, Dr Klemenic - he has the wisdom and eyebrows of an old owl.
My favourite teacher of them all, though, is Mr Tillott: I still haven't figured out if he's gay or not. I'll settle on bisexual.

My time at Worthing High has certainly been eventful. In Year 10, I went on two school trips - the first one to Spain, where a Spanish guy approached my group to advertise his pizza parlour, adding "There's lots of crrrrazy pussy in there!", followed by a suggestive display of tongue-flicking. He certainly knows his target market well... and evidently possesses impressive cunnilingus skills, too - this man is going to go far in life, methinks. The second trip was to the equally sunny location of Dorset, where I stayed in a caravan for several days. Usually, such a trip would cause me to die through lack of masturbation, but as I was sleeping less than a few feet away from Jake Hutson, I was thankfully less horny for the duration of the trip.

Worthing High may be an awful school, but it's so awful it's good. To say I've regretted going there would only be mostly true. I've met some people who have re-defined the term "retard", I've seen enough chavs to fill an Olympic swimming pool, and I've learned only one thing: that 95% of the people you will meet in life will be wankers. Ugly wankers. But there will always be that wonderful 5%; the non-wankers or slightly less wanky wankers, whose wanking is always done in good grace. Wank. Just thought I'd add another one there.
But I digress: it's almost sad to be coming to the end of Worthing High. Almost, but not quite. I've still got many exams left, which are always thoroughly enjoyable. Our hall gets patrolled by invigilators, peering over people's shoulders like hawks. My favourite invigilator is a repulsive, overweight woman who waddles around the hall, her face clearly showing pain from the physical exertion. Nothing says "Get back to your work" like witnessing her gigantic, warbling arse floating across your vision. There's also a slightly creepy-looking man whose trousers are positioned higher than Simon Cowell's. I was sat at the back of the hall for my most recent exam, and he came and stood behind me. I thought he might have taken a liking to me, but I soon realised he had instead positioned himself so that he could look at the underwear of the girl in front of me, which were halfway up her back. (Rosie Anstead, if you're reading this, that was you.)

So, I shall march dutifully onwards, completing my exams while staving off boredom through the wonderful art of masturbation. I'll be running out of tissues soon; luckily, my top drawer is full of old socks. Why did I write this long, grumbling piece, I hear you ask? Even I don't know, but it's best to express it now rather than develop psychiatric issues and go on a shooting spree in Cumbria. Or something.

This is the bit where I'm meant to say "Oho, I'm fooling around really, I don't really hate you all!"
Where I'm meant to.
Goodnight!

P.S. Keep your eyes and ears peeled (if that's physiologically possible, which I doubt) for The Paedophile Chronicles - coming soon!

My Experiences in the Strangest Place on Earth

A quick question for you all: Where is the one place on Earth where you are 100% guaranteed to find at least one paedophile, one religious fanatic, one alcoholic who's on the verge of a nervous breakdown, one conspiracy theorist and several teenage girls whose vaginas have been used so many times they contain graffiti?

School, that's where.

Only the government-enforced education system could bundle such a diverse and volatile group of people into the insane social gathering we call school.

Now, the chances are that if you belong to any ethnicity or social group whatsoever, I will probably indirectly insult you in the course of this blog. If you touch children, you will definitely be insulted.

So, where to start with this blog? Well, let's travel back in time about 11 years, to when I first started school.

My first school was a dismally pathetic establishment called Broadwater C of E school. That's right - a Christian school. I understand that it may be hard for you to visualise me - an outspoken atheist - in a Christian school, but it happened. I'm not sure why my Mum sent me there, or if she knew that I'd spend the next 7 years at that place fending off religious propaganda and bullies who could claim that Jesus told them to beat up the atheist kid.

I spent 7 years at that Christian school, and while I don't look back on my time there too fondly, I'm just pleased that I managed to avoid being raped in a broom cupboard.

The first 2 or 3 years of First School didn't really involve much education. We basically used glitter, pasta and paint to make crappy pictures of magical cows or whatever our innocent, crazy little minds could think up, while the patronising teachers gave us encouragement and ridiculously big smiles. I think the encouragement was somewhat misleading - kids shouldn't be told they're talented when they're not, because once they reach the adult world, the realisation that everything they do is actually shit will be rather shocking.

Similarly, I think High School Musical is to blame for giving many kids misconceptions about how high school is going to turn out. No-one starts singing a jaunty pop song as they're queuing up for the canteen; they'd be punched in the face for acting like a twat. High School Musical is a complete misrepresentation of reality; if I'd been directing it, I'd make it like a real American high school – Gabriella would take some cocaine at a party and give a stranger a blowjob, and Troy would consequently become depressed, drink himself into a stupor on his Stepdad's vodka cache, go to school and murder his classmates with a hunting rifle before blowing his own brains out in the gymnasium.

I quickly made friends with two other kids - Matt and Sam. We weren't exactly "The Cool Kids" in our trio, a fact which didn't change for the rest of our time at the school, especially since Sam acquired the nickname "Shagger"- a nickname I would be rather proud to bear, but he seemed to be extremely uncomfortable with it. He was one of those people who thinks that girls have "cooties" and still thinks that a clitoris is a type of fruit.

After condemning myself from an early age by landing myself with the weirdoes, I did little to improve my social status. In Year 4, I moved to Southampton for several months, which was bloody miserable, because I was quite frankly a dick and a social reject. I think I amassed a grand total of 1 friend in that terrible school. It did have some rather amusing characters, though, such as a pathological liar who had actually convinced himself that he was on the run from the FBI for hijacking a military jet, and was hiding out in our school as a fugitive. His paranoia had reached the point where on a Boy Scout camp, he decided to start patrolling the campsite at 4 in the morning with a large stick, in search for any "intruders".

Eventually, he tired of this, went for a piss in the bushes, and returned to the tent in order to throw Mars Bars at us.

So, after spending 7 years as a friendless dick, I moved up to high school, where I was fully anticipating the moronic world that awaited me. I decided to try and make some friends, which worked. Unfortunately, all my friends were, and still are, total dicks. Still, I like them in a warped way. Actually, they'll probably end up reading this, so to all of my friends: I hate you, stop putting your crisp packets in my bag.

It took me a few years, but I finally managed to propel myself up the social ladder, into my current position of hanging out with a broad assortment of trolls and idiots. I even have a girlfriend – one of the few people who I don't hate. My school is populated by a rather interesting selection of people, ranging from anti-social yobs to self-harmers to sex-obsessed midgets.

One child has anger management problems and only one arm that functions properly. If I had a conscience, I'd pity him, but I instead use him as a reliable source of laughs, seeing as he's constantly being antagonised by a particularly stupid, fat chav – a situation which often degenerates into the angry kid chasing the fat kid and trying to "chop" him with his arm.

There's also a kid who has a fascination with anal fisting. Yeah, you read that correctly. Apparently, the trick is to lubricate the fist and insert with a single, swift movement, though I still don't get how it would work… It would look like someone trying to swallow a boxing glove.

I like the idea of him getting with a girl for the first time – she expects him to put on a condom, and he instead starts strapping on a rubber glove. I'd give her 5 weeks at the very most before the diameter of her anus has expanded to the point where it looks like a second mouth.

Other notable characters include a child whose head is shaped uncannily like a giant egg, a sexually aggressive gay kid with a lisp, a guy who looks like Frankenstein with slightly more stylish hair, and a kid who managed to include the word "chapatti" in almost every one of his sentences for a couple of months.

But before you think that my school is completely made up of freaks, I should probably mention a certain "local legend" who attends our school – an undeniably incredible superhero known as Stevie T – an idol and inspirational figure for every young man. He looks like a werewolf and he speaks as if his oesophagus has been replaced by a broken moped engine.

Whoever decided it was a good idea to assemble such a diverse group of zany freaks in one place is probably not the smartest guy around, as you can probably assume. However, a group of equally moronic people known as teachers have been tasked with controlling, and – get this – educating us. All the teachers at the school start out perky enough, but after a few degrading months, they either begin to have violent moods swings that cause their prim exterior to melt away into demonic rage, or they simply fall into a state of clinical depression. Many of them achieve a good balance between the two.

I often feel a beautifully rare sense of irony when teachers tell me off, and especially when they make comments like "You'll get nowhere in life!"… The beauty here being that they are a middle-aged, low-wage drone, who spends their time teaching and arguing with morons, while lapsing into an ever-worsening state of depression that will probably induce an alcohol-fuelled heart attack by the age of 50.

There are many interesting individuals that make up the teaching staff. My history teacher's chin contains an enormous crevasse, for example. I suspect that it is actually a portal to another dimension. I'm looking forward to the day when he gets so pissed off with a pupil that he simply walks over and consumes them in his chin.

One of the Maths teachers is a particularly masculine woman, who boasts a crew cut and a pair of breasts that sag down to the point where they rest on top of her skirt. She always wears a watch, though her ability to tell the time is restricted by the fact that the rolls of fat on her arm cascade down to engulf the timepiece.

The best part of our Maths lessons is hearing her from across the Maths department, shouting. If you were to imagine how a gruff army sergeant would look and sound, you'd have a pretty good idea of what she's like. Alternatively, imagine a rhinoceros in a cage, which you've just spent half an hour throwing peanuts at.

One of the members of the leadership team at my school is a middle-aged white man, who's convinced himself that he's actually a young black man. He also seems intent on reminding us of his "blackness", as well as the fact that his wife and sons are black. Still, I guess that he's just trying to appear "hip" and "cool" to appeal to the chavs. He may as well dress up as Mr Blobby and recite his favourite parts of the Conservative Party manifesto, for all the popularity it gets him.

You're probably wondering – surely there's a paedophile in here somewhere! Yeah, we've got a few. My former drama teacher was one of the most easy-to-spot paedophiles I've ever encountered. I'm glad I didn't ever have to experience one of his detentions - whereas most teachers increase the amount of time you have to stay behind for, depending on the severity of your crime, I expect our drama teacher just increased the amount of fingers that he uses... I'd often wondered why there was a gimp mask and a saddle at the back of the props cupboard.

So, that's my school years in a very small nutshell. School may be abysmal in many ways, but it's also provided me with the most entertaining experiences of my life. I'm going to miss high school when I leave – I doubt I'll ever found a place quite so moronically lovable. I'd like to congratulate Worthing High School on being awesome. Awesomely shit, but awesome nonetheless.