A legal but distasteful rolled cigarette, made out of pubic hair and pubic hair alone. A boring day of revision at the school library. No teachers around. Andrew Hopley opens his flies, grabs the scissors, and cuts out a chunk of thatch. Rolls it into a piece of paper, borrows a lighter and tries to smoke it. Then the teacher came in. "Who's been playing with matches?" he asked. The teacher was standing on the still smouldering pubic spliff, that smelled - unsurprisingly - like burnt hair.
Like sardines, yet more violent. Still catering to the newly evolved homoeroticism of school kids. Basically, someone falls over on the hard gravel floor of the playground, and everyone else jumps on them. Pile-ons were regularly arranged for various break times as well, but few people were daring enough to be the first. Often led to serious injuries.
Not that we were racist, or anything, but we had the idea of the Nation of Domination, wherein black people would be put into tubes and forced to drown on their own excrement. Very slowly. We never told that to anyone, and no-one knew what the Nation of Domination was, except a select few. Then came the day that our black friend wanted to join.
Despite her heroic name, Mrs Power had a gammy arm and a bonky leg, and fell over on her first day. We used to make her cry.
Another of those 'not knowing the actual meaning of the word gay' thing. This name was enforced upon anyone who was weak, small, or young. Which of course defines gayness.
If you did something wrong that didn't merit an extra five pages of the dreaded Two Grade, you got the strap. Simple. Six times across each hand with something that no-one ever did describe. My friend had it done to him because he kicked a girl in the shins after she'd stolen our entire collection of helicopter leaves. There was supposed to be a gang you could join at the main school which consisted entirely of people who'd been strapped. Like a bondage Mile-High club. It didn't exist. Lying fuckers.
Being fortunate enough not to land in dear Brother Kelly's form class, I heard only rumours of what went on. But one thing we all saw was a plastic banana. Like a dog's toy. Lying on his desk. He used to staple it. Full of staples it was. I don't know why. I don't want to.
I went to school at what was the sad, tattered, skull-fucked remains of a Christian Brothers school, and Brother Kelly was the head. The only one of that paedophile clique still around... He used to walk around whistling, a huge fat fucker of a man, he was. When I was 12, our teacher wasn't teaching us enough, so we got BK every Tuesday instead. He'd drag you out to the front of the class for Maths all morning. If you got a question wrong, you got punched. If you were in his way as he went to punch a student, you got punched. If you got a few questions wrong, you'd have your head smashed into a wall. He also had a strap. And a banana.
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