That big tick after the word ‘pitchure’ makes it clear that I was being taught English by an incompetent who was as much a stranger to spelling as I was. Or maybe she was some sort of hippy who didn’t agree with knocking my incipient confidence by doing things like POINTING OUT WHEN I’D MADE A MISTAKE WHICH IS PRETTY MUCH A TEACHER’S RAISON D‘ETRE! ‘Aw, look, he spelled the word cat using a ‘w’ and the number 9, but I’m not going to be the one to make those blue eyes cry. 10 out of 10, my little genius.’ And what was going on in the pitchure itself? Clearly we’ve got a scale problem; either that or the kid with blue eyebrows for arms is a giant. And what kind of teacher forces the boys to wear Indain (sic) hats at a Christmas party? A fucking Red Indian Christmas party? SERIOUSLY? ‘OK, kids, let’s pass the parcel around the circle. But be careful. That parcel’s tainted with white man’s smallpox. Now, let’s scalp little Timmy.’ So what kind of hats will the girls be wearing? Well, just look at the pitchure, my young self implores you. Isn’t it obvious?? Em… no. Not really, young Jamie. French baguette and weird blue smudge hats? As worn by fucking Big Chief Blue Subway?