Well, when I was a little 'un
I was quite a warped child and I was always talking to imaginary friends, often inside cakes and badges and, as it turned out, small rubber "bouncy" balls. Soon enough I started talking *to* the objects, like people often do, and although this was very confusing for some people it all made perfect sense to me.

Anyway, at this point in the story, I was nine years old and had just lost a prized bouncy ball that week. It had been 20p out of a machine, but that wasn't the point - it was a pretty shade of blue and other children wanted to play with it too. One day, just before lunch-break, I was in the cloak-room area getting my coat and I found it again, inside one of my pockets, probably where I had left it. This was fabulous news but I was very pissed off about losing it, so I pulled it from my coat and said "Right, you little bastard, you're going home and staying there this time."

Evidently, my teacher, Mr K, had heard me above the noise of children talking to one another, as he called me over and asked for a word. I figured I would be told off for swearing, because saying "bastard" was a seriously big deal when I was nine. But it wasn't the case. As soon as I went up, he asked relatively calmly, "Why are you being so rude to me?"

"Erm...you what, sir?"

"I said WHY ARE YOU BEING SO RUDE TO ME!" he boomed. He also hit the table, causing me to jump backwards a couple of feet. The other children either put all eyes on me or scarpered.

"I wasn't, sir" I said truthfully. "I was talking to this ball here." I held it up. He stared at it, and at me.

"Go to Mr. Farrell" he shouted.

...Fine, I thought, fuck you then. So I went next door to Mr. Farrell, tailed by Mr K. Mr K told Mr Farrell that I had been unspeakably rude to him and made a pathetic excuse about it. I interjected at this point with "No, really, I was just talking to my ball here" and was told to shut up. Mr Farrell said "I think we should take him to Mr Granger." Mr Granger was the scary deputy-head. I was in serious shit, and I knew it.

So I went and sat outside his office while Mr K and Mr Farrell discussed it with him. I was crying and very confused, and I just sat there wondering what I could say to get myself out of trouble. I reasoned that, being an honest person, I would be treated fairly and had nothing to fear.

Not so. Mr Granger came out and said to me "I'm not even going to say anything to you. You disgust me. I just want you to think about what you said, and the pitiful excuse you gave, and how worthless you look."

"But.." I opened my mouth

"DON'T GIVE ME THAT" shouted Mr Granger, before I tuned him out and carried on crying. Looking back on it, I can't help but wonder why he called a nine-year-old boy worthless.

Anyway, it was about to get taken to the head when my councillor\SENCO\whatever lady walked past. After a short chat with her, she had a quiet word with all concerned and it was like nothing had happened. Presumably she told them I'm a schizophrenic or something, I don't know. But that was that. I was a bit annoyed nobody apologised, even though that was clearly pushing it.

Except Mr K sat me on a little table on my own at the back of the class the next day and I had to stay there for three half-terms before my parents intervened, and he never liked me after that either. I didn't mind sitting on my own, and I never asked for my parents to intervene, but Jesus, what a bastard.

The moral of this story is don't talk to inanimate objects in front of crazy Nigerian spacktards who'll get paranoid. By the way, Mr K is really called Kingsford Koomson, and if he's reading this I hope he's lost his job and licks boots for a living.

And Mr Granger now teaches cheerleading.

...Length, etc.
( Reid got it going on like Donkey Kong, Fri 7 Oct 2005, 0:43, Reply)