Ode to a teaching assistant
Many, many moons ago, I was given a job by my school teaching kids life skills as part of the school's partnership scheme with other local schools of lower performance rating. In other words, good school sent pupils to work at bad school to make bad pupils good pupils like me.

Now, I was the poorest lad in my class and had all the self confidence of a computer programmer headling the main stage of Glastonbury. The way I saw it, going to teach kids skills like cooking and revision technique would be a walk in the park since I had the same upbringing and intentions as them.

While that was true, what I hadn't expected was the batshit insane mother of one neverending wave of Zerglings, named Kayleigh.

Kayleigh had popped out 5 kids in 3 years. That's 2 sets of twins and another future frontrunner at the dole office in the time it takes for my Mum to send an email. Their names? Barry and Harry, Shelly and Kelly, and Chardonnay-Divine. I wish I was shitting you with that last one.

Now, in an attempt to be 'urban' and 'hip', alongside the arts, crafts and life skills classes was a course from a professional club dj (he was black and everything) to teach children how to 'scratch'. While I can't say I approve of the class (I keep all my CDs in their cases, thank you), the kids soon went to it like a fly to hot shit and I was drafted in to assist.

Knowing fuck all on the subject myself, the 5 kids soon took an opportunity to mutiny against the class. Records were taken out of the box and the ones deemed unworthy were smashed against desks, and then burnt in a pile. The microphone was used for some sort of 8-Mile slagging off match between two of the brothers, while Chardonnay-Divine proceeded to try and knick two mixing desks. While strangling the runts was off-limits, I used my cunning to subdue them while reinforcements were called.

Yes readers, I gave them all a Twix each and called their Mum. 10 minutes later, Kayleigh is seen storming towards the door, fists clenched, ready to pounce. Grabbing the handle with her mighty claw, she lets out an echoing:

'YER LIL SHITE!' - Christ, was I glad not to be the one on the receiving end of this bollocking.

'HOW DARE YE TELL MY KIDS WHATS RIGHT AND WRONG YE CUNT! KIDS, GET IN THE CAR WHILE I SORT THIS TWAT OUT' - Spoke too soon there.

Attempting to defuse the situation, I try and explain in the most calming words I can how one kid has just tried to walk off with £300 of recording equipment, 2 of her boys have just beatboxed solely using the word 'cunt' to most of the school, and a large, invaluable record collection spanning 15 years is now in a pile of viynl under some wooden desks, leaving a 6ft tall black man curdled in a ball of tears.

'Now you listen, kid. My little angels aint done nothing wrong all their lives and love their mother. You can't prove shit, and I aint paying shit all for your shitty class, so I'm fucking off now and I hope you do the same, cos if I see you again, my boyfriend will do you in a driveby.'

'I'm sorry you feel that way, madam, but that's not feasible now.' I replied.

'YOU'RE GONNA TELL ME WHAT TO DO NOW, YOU CUNT?'

'No madam, it's just your children are setting fire to the car you arrived in.'
(FoxyBadger (try saying it backwards), Thu 10 Sep 2009, 18:52, 3 replies)

Some people shouldn't be allowed to breed.
I salute your patience! I would have lost my temper and punched her in the eye.
(TheWonderfulWombat It came to me in a dream., Thu 10 Sep 2009, 22:06, closed)

I spend most of my free time either on b3ta or fiddling with computers
I don't have upper body strength!
(FoxyBadger (try saying it backwards), Thu 10 Sep 2009, 23:38, closed)

.
A classic case for post-natal abortion.
(LittleKitty, Mon 14 Sep 2009, 14:15, closed)