Reflections on school days, bullying and the bad bus

seatbeltsIt’s going to be a while before either of my children (one a toddler, the other yet to be born) go to school, but given how quickly time has whizzed by since little Jack first emerged gunky and cone-headed into the world, I wouldn’t be surprised to look up to discover him bedecked in a blazer and sporting an incredibly ill-advised side-parting the second I’m finished writing this article.

The thought of sending my children to school terrifies me. For all that school is a place of forced captivity where lessons are learned and friendships forged, so is fucking prison. School’s a place where we’re bundled off to be indoctrinated into a work-a-day routine that’ll help keep the wheels of capitalism spinning, whether we’re destined to become the spinners or the spun. They’re living-flesh factories, sorting children by aptitude and ability and then spitting them along the conveyer belt – or down the garbage chute – of life. Teachers seem to be so over-worked and under-resourced that even the most inspirational of them are too busy being crushed under a ton-weight of bureaucracy to break out any Dead Poets Society-style shit. While it’s true that school has the power to teach you a lot about yourself and the wider world, that doesn’t prove that the experience is ultimately a worthwhile one. After all, even in war people still find time to play a quick game of five-asides against the foreign exchange students.

In some ways, things are even more war-like than they were in my day. Schools now have their own cops, for Christ’s sake! How did that happen? This development in community policing indicates either that schools are now fundamentally unsafe places to send our children, or else the government is conducting a grand experiment to save time and money by identifying and labelling future offenders early: a choice between The Hunger Games and Minority Report, if you like. Bullying, which has always been a constant of school-life, has now entered The Matrix thanks to the oppressive, omnipresent connectivity of social media. 2016’s bullies have the access and power of the fucking Lawnmower Man, meaning that my kids can now be bullied in the comfort of their own bedrooms, 24/7. In my day (there’s that fuddy duddy refrain again), a bedroom was a sanctuary that only homework and mothers had to power to penetrate.

media

I’m perhaps over-accentuating the doom and gloom element of school life in general and my own school days in particular. My schools were hardly the stuff of The Wire, or Dangerous Minds; they were rather pleasant places, actually, and I do have a lot of fond memories to look back upon. As I still live in the same general area I’ve no reason to expect that my sons will experience a radically different school-life from mine. Even still, whichever school they attend is going to have a ‘Lord of the Flies’ flavour that I dearly wish they didn’t have to taste: regardless of any culturally-shared notions of school ‘preparing them for the real world’ or ‘building their characters’. Simply put, my partner and I can’t afford to send them to private school.

The good news is, though, that because we can’t send them to private school, my paper-thin socialist sensibilities get to remain untested and intact. Thank God for that. (clears throat and raises fist aloft) Education for all! Down with the two-tier system! Private school kids are all snobby bastards… (checks bank balance again, just in case)

Of course, Private school wouldn’t eliminate psychopathic bullies from my children’s school life, but it would probably buy them a better breed of psychopathic bully. Instead of being stuck in a class alongside kids who listed among their hobbies eating stringy bogies, setting fire to bins and taking steaming shits in the teacher’s supply cupboard, they could be rubbing shoulders with the crème de la creme of cold-hearted monsters, the sort of rich boys who will inevitably grow up to destroy the world’s economy with one solitary sniff of Bolivian and a single thump of an ENTER key (We’ve considered home-schooling, but my partner’s worried we’d make them weird. They share fifty per cent of my DNA, love. That ship’s already sailed).

Thinking about my kids’ future school days has got me thinking about my own behaviour at high school. While – broadly speaking – I was a good, unobjectionable and unremarkable young lad: never quite top of the class; never quite on the teachers’ shit lists; liked – or at least tolerated – by a wide-ish spectrum of the school continuum – I could still be an absolute cuntbag. As all teenage boys, I’m certain, have the potential to be, a potential that most of them fulfil at one point or another.

school

My cuntbaggery always shone brightest when I was sitting up the back seats of the Wallacestone bus on the journey home from school, alongside a merry band of chanting dick-bags who – when we weren’t cruelly impersonating teachers or singing bawdy football songs (which even I joined in with, despite my hatred of football) – took great delight in providing really quite horrible intro music for the bus’s regular cast of characters. We revelled in the supreme power our size, seniority and prime seating afforded us, believing ourselves to be banter-maestros extraordinaire, when in reality we were a bunch of boorish, bullying bastards in the iron grip of mob rule.

The memories are a catalogue of shame. There was a little boy of wholly Caucasian extraction whom we decided had a curiously Mexican flavour to his heritage, and so, without fail, every time this poor unfortunate boy stepped onto the bus, we stamped our feet in unison and mimicked the vigorous strumming of guitars, belting out a Speedy Gonzales-esque Mexican ditty. You know the one: de de de-de de de-de de de-de, de de-de de de-de de de-de. We may even have shouted Ariba. We really were cunts.

There was another boy called Michael, still not sure of his surname, whose only crime was to have an ear-ring. He also bore a striking resemblance to a young Jimmy Sommerville. When he got on the bus we always chanted, “Micheal Thingmy is a poofter!”, which we repeated and repeated until he’d sat down, each line of the chant punctuated by four loud hand-claps. I don’t know what hit Michael Thingmy the hardest: the taunts about his ear-ring, or the fact that we never considered his surname all that important to the bullying process. Michael’s probably a bank manager with a wife and three kids by now, and it’s my fond hope that the Thingmy family is doing well.

fight

Another poor boy was welcomed daily with a chant of ‘You smell, and you know you do’, again and again until he disappeared up the top deck of the bus. It’s never been confirmed that he actually smelled, and it’s certainly never been confirmed that he knew that he did. He never stuck around to debate the matter with us, quite correctly ascertaining that a gang of idiots with a mixed-back of monosyllabic chants probably wasn’t the best group to engage in rational discussion.

The worst song was reserved for one of our own, a pleasant chap by the name of Craig Muir (*not his real name), and to my eternal shame I must confess to having written it. Craig was a nice, normal lad, peaceful by nature, and never went looking for trouble. He had a close friendship with his brother, and at primary school used to win fights by chewing on his own hand with a terrifying look in his eyes (the tactic being: “If I can do this to myself, think what I’ll do to you!”). From that scant biography grew a song that went a little like this:

The Muiry Song

Verse 1

He lives in a house of tar and bricks,

He’s had the same jacket since primary six,

And when in a fight one must demand,

He opens his mouth and bites his hand.

Chorus

Muiry boy,

Muiry boy,

Went to the shop for a new sex toy,

Stuck it up his bum,

Covered it in cum,

Oh Muiry boy, oh what’s your ploy?

There were a lot of other verses, possibly as many as there are to be found in our own national anthem, which have thankfully been lost to the mists of time: one of which I’m sure was about the Muir brothers fucking each other. It was a very subtle piece of work. The song became so popular that another wee guy in our circle, Karl, typed up the lyrics and handed out song sheets. Song sheets on the bus, for fuck sake. Some of these guys never did their homework, but committed themselves with great zeal to this extra-curricular musical extravaganza. Years later, in my mid-twenties, I was at a function at a hotel, and was served by Craig Muir. One of the first things he said to me, with a scowl on his face, was: ‘That fucking Muiry Boy song.’

The bad news: I was an arsehole. The good news? I’d written a hit song.

NEXT TIME: The scales are re-balanced slightly when I recount my own experiences of being bullied, and of saving someone from bullying. Plus, an introduction to the phenomenon of ‘the shaggy pole’.

(PLEASE NOTE: NEXT TIME could be a long time away. Child number 2 is imminent, and I have to be in the mood to write it. I’m sure you’re on the edges of your seats waiting, right?)

Young Jamie: Kindergarten Cock (Part 4)

First off, not a great interpretation of the ‘back-to-front schoolboy’ look. I’ve clearly glued a sanitary towel to a cardboard box, and then put it over my head. Ta-da! Eat your heart out, Gaultier. I don't know. Memory's a tricksy thing. It was all a long time ago. Maybe that was my school uniform. I can't remember. Fanny pad aside, though, how sinister does that combo look? If that’s an accurate representation of how I looked when I was out guising that year, then the mortality rate for old ladies with heart conditions must’ve been unusually high. I look like a Poundland version of Michael Myers: ‘Put the sweets in the bag or prepare to be gored like a bull, my old friend.’ Admittedly, it would’ve been hard to stab anyone without any hands. The text tells us alot. I especially like how my little capitalist brain has ranked my relatives in descending order from highest to lowest based on how much money they gave me. ‘30p? Try not to insult me, cus. Take a leaf out of your maw’s book and give me a quid next time. Grandpa? 50p’s a kick in the nuts, son, and you know it. If you want to top the list next year, you’ll have to dig deeper into that fucking pension.’ Interesting that the teacher has corrected the direction of my pound sign, but left uncorrected the spelling of ‘ant’. Are you saying my mum’s sister’s got mandibles, ya cunt??

First off, not a great interpretation of the ‘back-to-front schoolboy’ look. I’ve clearly glued a sanitary towel to a cardboard box, and then put it over my head. Ta-da! Eat your heart out, Gaultier. I don’t know. Memory’s a tricksy thing. It was all a long time ago. Maybe that was my school uniform. I can’t remember. Fanny pad aside, though, how sinister does that combo look? If that’s an accurate representation of how I looked when I was out guising that year, then the mortality rate for old ladies with heart conditions must’ve been unusually high. I look like a Poundland version of Michael Myers: ‘Put the sweets in the bag or prepare to be gored like a bull, my old friend.’ Admittedly, it would’ve been hard to stab anyone without any hands. The text tells us alot. I especially like how my little capitalist brain has ranked my relatives in descending order from highest to lowest based on how much money they gave me. ‘30p? Try not to insult me, cus. Take a leaf out of your maw’s book and give me a quid next time. Grandpa? 50p’s a kick in the nuts, son, and you know it. If you want to top the list next year, you’ll have to dig deeper into that fucking pension.’ Interesting that the teacher has corrected the direction of my pound sign, but left uncorrected the spelling of ‘ant’. Are you saying my mum’s sister’s got mandibles, ya cunt??

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

NO ENTRIES HERE YET

Young Jamie: Kindergarten Cock (Part 3)

P3News9

Let’s not beat about the bush here: this is one fucked up kids’ party. Not only is there an adult man there who looks like a) a Wild West saloon owner from 1889, or b) the lost member of the Village People, but also there’s a little blonde child perched on a rock with a mighty blue boner sprouting from his stomach. Plus, the moustache guy’s pissed himself. Was he thinking about the blue boner? Or was he thinking about the dead child with the green trousers who’s lying next to him? Jesus, we really knew how to rock and roll when I was 7. IT’S NOT A PROPER PARTY UNTIL THERE’S A DEAD CHILD LYING AT THE FEET OF A MAN WHO LOOKS LIKE HE’S ESCAPED FROM A TINTIN COMIC. Interesting to note that ‘I wasn’t dancing atall all (sic) through the party.’ Not much has changed. This is because when I dance I look like a spasticated sex offender. Sometimes, my top half will be doing a dance from the 1990s, whilst my legs are pulling off moves from the 1970s. Not a pretty sight. I prefer to stand around looking like I’m above it all, but really it’s because I’m conscious that any very limited sex appeal I might have possessed will be eliminated the second I begin dancing. My rhythmic style could charitably be described as ‘disturbingly epileptic.’ Anyway, back at the party I was content to go around ‘pretending to spray people.’ Maybe that was me with the big blue boner…

Young Jamie: Kindergarten Cock (Part 2)

What a nice, caring and sharing child I must've been. You can see from the first panel on the left-hand-side of the page that I've got a new comic. You can also see that I'm rubbing this fact in the face of a poor, sad little baseball cap wearing boy. 'CHECK OUT MY COMIC, YOU PENNILESS OAF! I HOPE YOU'VE GOT GOOD EYESIGHT, PLEB, BECAUSE THIS IS AS CLOSE AS YOU'RE FUCKING GETTING TO IT!' The wee capped guy probably isn't that bothered, to be honest. He's got bigger problems: like being trapped in a cement block without any arms. PS: What in the name of cemented children is a LOINheart? And why was I not content with a single one? Perhaps the comic was pitched at kids who enjoyed raw meat, and so its publishers routinely gave away strange butcher-meat hybrids. FREE WITH THIS EXCITING ISSUE - HALF A POUND OF COCKBRISKET.

What a nice, caring and sharing child I must’ve been. You can see from the first panel on the left-hand-side of the page that I’ve got a new comic. You can also see that I’m rubbing this fact in the face of a poor, sad little baseball cap wearing boy. ‘CHECK OUT MY COMIC, YOU PENNILESS OAF! I HOPE YOU’VE GOT GOOD EYESIGHT, PLEB, BECAUSE THIS IS AS CLOSE AS YOU’RE FUCKING GETTING TO IT!’ The wee capped guy probably isn’t that bothered, to be honest. He’s got bigger problems: like being trapped in a cement block without any arms. PS: What in the name of cemented children is a LOINheart? And why was I not content with a single one? Perhaps the comic was pitched at kids who enjoyed raw meat, and so its publishers routinely gave away strange butcher-meat hybrids. FREE WITH THIS EXCITING ISSUE – HALF A POUND OF COCKBRISKET.

Young Jamie: Portrait of a Serial Douchebag (Part 10)

Was I trying to fuck my dog, or asphyxiate it. Or both? Maybe I had a silk noose and an orange in there, too. Yes, I’d crawl into my dog’s bed, wrap it tightly in a sheet until it started choking, and then let it have a gulp of air seconds before its terrible death. Then I went away. I don’t know why I thought the addition of the phrase ‘the light was off’ was necessary to the understanding of the piece, but it sure adds a whole meaty dollop of sinister to proceedings. I might as well have written: ‘And then I drank from his knife wound.’ Surreal and sinister accompanying picture, though. The picture bears almost no relation to the accompanying text. In the picture, it looks like I’m holding an Etch-a-Sketch captive in a dingy basement dungeon, and I’ve had to cut him for stepping out of line.

Was I trying to fuck my dog, or asphyxiate it. Or both? Maybe I had a silk noose and an orange in there, too. Yes, I’d crawl into my dog’s bed, wrap it tightly in a sheet until it started choking, and then let it have a gulp of air seconds before its terrible death. Then I went away. I don’t know why I thought the addition of the phrase ‘the light was off’ was necessary to the understanding of the piece, but it sure adds a whole meaty dollop of sinister to proceedings. I might as well have written: ‘And then I drank from his knife wound.’ Surreal and sinister accompanying picture, though. The picture bears almost no relation to the accompanying text. In the picture, it looks like I’m holding an Etch-a-Sketch captive in a dingy basement dungeon, and I’ve had to cut him for stepping out of line.

Young Jamie: Portrait of a Serial Douchebag (Part 8)

At first glance nothing seems to be too wrong with this picture. We’re going up to Tasha’s place to celebrate my friend’s (aka my step-sister’s) birthday. That’s normal, right? Wrong. Tasha’s a dog. I thought so highly of my step-grandparents that I airbrushed them from history, and even ascribed ownership of their house to a dog. Hey, it could happen in real life. I‘ve certainly dealt with solicitors dodgy enough to embark (geddit!!) on such deals: ‘Well, Rover, do you want to accept the offer of £45,000? That’s one bark for yes, two for no. Oh, and lick your balls if you want me to take an extra ten per cent… Goooooood.’ Never mind that, though. Let’s admire my grasp on reality through the medium of artistry. Hmmmm. Interesting picture. Tables, as we all know, needn’t rest exclusively upon floors. They can also be stabbed into a dog’s back; all the better to transport yellow hedgehogs that have been set alight. Looking at the picture itself my main question would have to be: what in the name of Jesus were we about to do to Tasha the dog? Maybe I’d watched Animal Farm on VHS, but the wrong one. You know… the bad one. Don’t pretend you don’t know the one I’m talking about. I’m pretty sure George Orwell never included a chapter about a women being pecked in the minge by a duck, or a guy being whacked off by a chimp. If you haven’t seen the naughty version of Animal Farm, here’s the tagline for the movie: ‘All animals are sexy, but some animals are more sexy than others.’

At first glance nothing seems to be too wrong with this picture. We’re going up to Tasha’s place to celebrate my friend’s (aka my step-sister’s) birthday. That’s normal, right? Wrong. Tasha’s a dog. I thought so highly of my step-grandparents that I airbrushed them from history, and even ascribed ownership of their house to a dog. Hey, it could happen in real life. I‘ve certainly dealt with solicitors dodgy enough to embark (geddit!!) on such deals: ‘Well, Rover, do you want to accept the offer of £45,000? That’s one bark for yes, two for no. Oh, and lick your balls if you want me to take an extra ten per cent… Goooooood.’ Never mind that, though. Let’s admire my grasp on reality through the medium of stick drawings. Hmmmm. Interesting picture. Tables, as we all know, needn’t rest exclusively upon floors. Tables can also be stabbed into a dog’s back; all the better to transport yellow hedgehogs that have been set on fire, apparently. How bizarre. It looks like the dog is serving an unusual canape at a really fucked up version of the Ambassador’s reception: ‘Ah, meester dog, weeth thees charred woodland mammal you are really spoiling us!’ Looking at the picture itself, though, my main question would have to be: what in the name of Jesus were we about to do to Tasha the dog? Maybe my young self had just been corrupted by watching Animal Farm on VHS, but the wrong one. You know… the bad one. Not the one that’s an allegory about totalitarian states. Don’t pretend you don’t know the one I’m talking about. You know, not the George Orwell one… I’m pretty sure Orwell never included a chapter about a woman being pecked in the minge by a duck, or a guy getting whacked off by a chimp. If you haven’t seen the naughty version of Animal Farm, here’s the tagline for the movie: ‘All animals are sexy, but some animals are more sexy than others.’

Young Jamie: Portrait of a Serial Douchebag (Part 7)

What I love about this entry is the tone of persecution, and the stubborn refusal to accept any responsibility whatsoever. DAMN YOU GOD! WILL THOUEST NOT BE SATISFIED UNTIL I HAVE NOT ONE UNRIPPED KNEE IN MY SCHOOL TROUSERS? Clearly I hadn’t stolen my sister’s sand timer, and clearly I hadn’t then broken it. Don’t you see? I was fitted up! Not an amazing re-enactment of the crime in any case. It looks like a black skittle with rolling pins for arms is about to smash up a warp core. GREAT IDEA ALERT: kids should be employed to sketch up real-life scenes for Crimewatch. ‘Did you see an elongated stick man with fire for hair and bikes for legs acting suspiciously in Norwich town centre last Friday? We’d like to hear from you.’

What I love about this entry is the tone of persecution, and the stubborn refusal to accept any responsibility whatsoever. DAMN YOU GOD! WILL THOUEST NOT BE SATISFIED UNTIL I HAVE NOT ONE UNRIPPED KNEE IN MY SCHOOL TROUSERS? Clearly I hadn’t stolen my sister’s sand timer, and clearly I hadn’t then broken it. Don’t you see? I was fitted up! Not an amazing re-enactment of the crime in any case. It looks like a black skittle with rolling pins for arms is about to smash up a warp core. GREAT IDEA ALERT: kids should be employed to sketch up real-life scenes for Crimewatch. ‘Did you see an elongated stick man with fire for hair and bikes for legs acting suspiciously in Norwich town centre last Friday? We’d like to hear from you.’

Young Jamie: Portrait of a Serial Douchebag (Part 6)

What a tough child I was. Watching Jaws 2, and then going swimming. Fear came knocking, I answered, and I kicked its ass. Up yours, sharks! Kiss my armbands, you finned motherfuckers! Technically, though, I wasn’t really going swimming. I was going ‘swinging the baths’, whatever the fuck that means. From looking at the corresponding picture, it seems that ‘swinging the baths’ involves recreating ‘The Ascent of Man’ in a frightfully multi-coloured way. Apparently black is the least evolved colour, or so said my disgustingly racist little brain. But, hey, never mind that: softball! Fucking softball! Awesome! Em… is that softball? Really? Maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s a Frenchman defending the Arc de Triomphe against a blue-haired caveman on a very sunny day using only a giant spoon… which DID happen on one of our family holidays… Anyway, through analysing my pictures it‘s clear that watching Jaws 2 caused rigor mortis, and watching Doctor Who caused me to transform into a wooden chair, which in turn sat upon an even less realistic chair.

What a tough child I was. Watching Jaws 2, and then going swimming. Fear came knocking, I answered, and I kicked its ass. Up yours, sharks! Kiss my armbands, you finned motherfuckers! Technically, though, I wasn’t really going swimming. I was going ‘swinging the baths’, whatever the fuck that means. From looking at the corresponding picture, it seems that ‘swinging the baths’ involves recreating ‘The Ascent of Man’ in a frightfully multi-coloured way. Apparently black is the least evolved colour, or so said my disgustingly racist little brain. But, hey, never mind that: softball! Fucking softball! Awesome! Em… is that softball? Really? Maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s a Frenchman defending the Arc de Triomphe against a blue-haired caveman on a very sunny day using only a giant spoon… which DID happen on one of our family holidays… Anyway, through analysing my pictures it‘s clear that watching Jaws 2 caused rigor mortis, and watching Doctor Who caused me to transform into a wooden chair, and then sit my chairy ass upon an even less realistic chair.

 

Illustrated diary entries from my Primary 2 school jotters.

 

Young Jamie: Portrait of a Serial Douchebag (Part 4)

OK, so I was 6 years old and my mum let me watch Billy Connolly. So what? Exposure to Billy Connolly at such a young age had no fucking effect on my fucking development what-so-fucking-ever, so get fucked on that score if that's your fucking argument, you fucking bastard. You're nothing but a wee fucking jobby. Anyway, I told my teacher about it in my diary, and she didn't seem to give a fuck, so that's okay. I really like how I've really nailed Connolly in this picture; it's like looking at a photograph of him. Not a single real-life detail is left out, from his blue face and Ming the Merciless beard, to his naked yellow body and massive, heavily bleeding gash wound across his neck and shoulders. It's like a van Gogh (only by virtue of the blood running down Connolly's face and body). Anyway, he's one of my earliest comedy heroes, and if he knew back then that his routines would act as an inspiration for my own forays into stand-up, he probably would have killed himself.

OK, so I was 6 years old and my mum let me watch Billy Connolly. So what? Exposure to Billy Connolly at such a young age had no negative fucking effect on my fucking development what-so-fucking-ever, so get fucked on that score if that’s your fucking argument, you fucking bastard. You’re nothing but a wee jobby. Anyway, I told my teacher about it in my diary, and she didn’t seem to give a fuck, about the possibility of me picking up naughty fucking words or becoming more aggressive, so what in the name of shite’s cunt are you getting involved for, pal? Hmmm. I really like how I’ve nailed Connolly in this picture; it’s like looking at a photograph of him. Not a single authentic detail has been left out; from his trademark blue face and Ming the Merciless beard, to his naked yellow body and the massive, heavily bleeding wound across his neck and shoulders. It’s like a van Gogh – not the artistic style – mainly because of the blood running down Connolly’s face and body. Oh, and we all know how much Connolly hated conventional stages back in the early days, preferring instead to tell jokes on top of a giant log. Anyway, he’s one of my earliest comedy heroes, and if he’d known back then that his routines would act as an inspiration for my own forays into stand-up, he probably would have killed himself.

Young Jamie: Portrait of a Serial Douchebag (Part 3) The Robot

Another sneaky peak at my school days, from the pages of my Primary 2 diary jotter. Today: behold, the robot!

Ok, let’s just get this out of the way, yeah? There’s an elephant in this room. A giant, cock-shaped one. So let’s grab it with both hands: my ‘robot’ has a helmet for a head (complete with Japseye-slit); a shaft for a body; and both of these parts are resting atop a big set of squishy, flattened balls. All that’s missing is the fountain of jizz gushing whale-like from its head. There are some deviations from the classic form, of course: penises typically don’t have accordion-esque robot arms dangling from them, or have ‘VULGAR’ written across them. Jesus, what a name to pick. VULGAR. How Freudian. I might as well have called it DIRTY BAD NAUGHTY PLACE. I wonder why the teacher corrected all of the spelling mistakes, but never bothered to write: ‘Jamie, you’ve clearly drawn me a big cock, you wee pervert.’ She graded it G for good, and then awarded me a star. Maybe, in those pre-internet-porn times, the old spinster was just glad to be seeing a cock, however robotic its manifestation. ('Jamie - I want this robot in me. Mrs Snowdon) This whole diary entry raises many questions: Where did I make him put up his hand? And in what way did I make him ‘stick’? And, most pertinently of all, why was I writing about having a maths and sex orgy with a robot when I have never, ever owned a robot, toy or otherwise? And the teacher simply accepted my claim!? I said my family owned a super-intelligent sex-robot, and she just shrugged and  gave me a tick? Sick-ass bitch.

Ok, let’s just get this out of the way, yeah? There’s an elephant in this room. A giant, cock-shaped one. So let’s grab it with both hands: my ‘robot’ has a helmet for a head (complete with Japseye-slit); a shaft for a body; and both of these parts are resting atop a big set of squishy, flattened balls. All that’s missing is the fountain of jizz gushing whale-like from its head. There are some deviations from the classic form, of course: penises typically don’t have accordion-esque robot arms dangling from them, or have ‘VULGAR’ written across them. Jesus, what a name to pick. VULGAR. How Freudian. I might as well have called it DIRTY BAD NAUGHTY PLACE. I wonder why the teacher corrected all of the spelling mistakes, but never bothered to write: ‘Jamie, you’ve clearly drawn me a big cock, you wee pervert.’ She graded it G for good, and then awarded me a star. Maybe, in those pre-internet-porn times, the old spinster was just glad to be seeing a cock, however robotic its manifestation. (‘Jamie – I want this robot in me. Love, Mrs Snowdon’) This whole diary entry raises many questions: Where did I make him ‘put up his hand’? And in what way did I make him ‘stick’? And here’s the biggest problem. I claimed to have a robot. I was lying. Not only did I claim to have a robot, but I claimed to have a super-intelligent cock-shaped sex robot. Again, I was lying. Furthermore, they don’t exist. Why was I not challenged on this? My teacher was either a) a lazy, stupid, cock-daft deviant, or b) a big fan of Rocky 4.

 

Young Jamie: Portrait of a Serial Douchebag (part 2)

Here’s another diary entry from my Primary 2 jotter.

OK, first thing's first, the 12th of November is not near Christmas. You'll have to forgive my poor sense of time perspective. I hadn't started masturbating yet, and so had nothing to fill the void between special occasions. I probably thought December the 26th was pretty near Christmas. Anyway, I seemed to be really looking forward to getting this gorilla suit, ostensibly so I could swap it for a Santa suit.

OK, first thing’s first, the 12th of November isn’t near Christmas. Please forgive my poor sense of time perspective. I hadn’t started masturbating yet, and so there was nothing to fill the void between special occasions. I probably thought December the 30th was near Christmas. What a little toy whore. Anyway, what’s the whole suit swap thing all about? Why did I believe that I could only hope to possess a Santa suit if I first donned a gorilla suit? Maybe gorilla is a soft gateway suit that leads you on to harder and harder suits, until eventually you’re way past Santa and standing infront of the Children’s Panel in a blue tutu and a diver’s helmet. In any case, a gorilla suit is WAY better than a Santa suit. What the fuck was I thinking? You can scare an old lady unconscious when you’re in a gorilla suit. In a Santa suit? Not so much. Unless it’s April and you’re carrying a knife. Speaking of Christmas-related violence, I can’t help but feel that the picture I’ve drawn isn’t that festive. It’s ostensibly a warm, happy picture of a family crowded around a fireplace on Christmas Day; but, if you look closely, I’m throwing my hands in the air and screaming in horror. And no wonder! At the left-hand side of the fireplace there’s a tubby, middle-aged guy showing off a whopping blue boner, and at the right-hand side of the fireplace there’s another guy with an even BIGGER blue boner – it’s longer than his legs, for fuck sake! And look again: the fireplace isn’t a fireplace at all, but a giant box with three massive locks on its lid that those rapey bastards are going to shut me in once they’re done perpetrating sex crimes on my young, black ass. Wait a minute… am I wearing a cat suit? That’s it, I’m phoning Esther Rantzen.