Young Jamie: Portrait of a Serial Douchebag (Part 5)

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?

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?

Young Jamie: Portrait of a Serial Douchebag (Part 1)

I found a holdall in my mum’s attic that’s full of old jotters from primary school. Over the next few weeks I’m going to share a few choice entries from primaries 2 – 5.

Today’s sample comes from my Primary 2 News jotter, in which I expertly summarised my actions, thoughts and deeds from the weekend.

Ah, yes. I might've been greedy (seventeen colouring books? How very middle-class of me) and shit at writing, but at least I had counting nailed. There are indeed seventeen splodges of colour in the beautifully rendered picture above the diary entry. I was deadly at counting, and this skill has paid dividends in the adult world. I'm awesome at counting up how much money I don't have. Sorry for saying there were seventeen splodges of colour. There are clearly 'seventeene.' It wasn't a spelling mistake, as my teacher knew fine well. Clearly I was so advanced I'd decided to slip in a wee bit of Shakespeare.

Ah, yes. I might’ve been greedy (seventeen colouring books? How very middle-class of me) and shit at writing, but at least I had counting nailed. There are indeed seventeen splodges of colour in the beautifully rendered picture above the diary entry. I was excellent at counting, and this is a skill that has proven indispensable in the adult world. Now I can itemise all of my bitter regrets, and count up all of the money I don’t have. Sorry for saying there were seventeen splodges of colour. There are clearly ‘seventeene.’ It wasn’t a spelling mistake, as my teacher knew fine well. Clearly I was so advanced I decided to slip in a wee bit of Shakespeare. I was always doing that at school. Even when I needed a piss I’d put my hand up and say, ‘O but that thou wouldst graciously grant me leave from this place so that I may take a wee-wee, perchance a jobby, fair maiden.’ Either that or I’d just blow my face purple and shite in my Ghostbusters’ Y-fronts right there at my desk. Also note how I clarified my intended use of the colouring book to avoid confusion: ‘to colour in.’ Why am I not Prime Minister by now?