Infant school, class of 1986,
there was this horrible dragon bitch with a face like a bulldog licking piss off a thistle, who'd obviously gleaned her lipstick application technique from Pennywise The Clown's Guide To Looking Fucking Terrifying And Making Small Children Poo And Cry At The Same Time (Faber & Faber, £12.99). She was thick as the contents of her putrid gusset, too - it was a well-known fact that you HAD to spell cetrain words her way ('dinasaur' and 'hellicopter' were two that particularly stuck in MY mind, having been dragged to the front of the class to receive bollockings of truly hellacious proportions for displaying the rank temerity to hand in pieces of homework containing the clearly laughable 'dinosaur' and 'helicopter' respectively). She loved making kids soil their underwear - she'd deliberately and maliciously not let you go to the toilet until you were literally doubled over on the storytime carpet, foaming at the mouth and sobbing gasped pleas through clenched milk teeth. She kept the toilet roll in her desk drawer, and you had to ask for 'one piece or two' in front of the whole class when you needed to go - obviously if you EVER asked for two, you got seven shades of shit kicked out of you in the playground for being a 'poo boy', so you had to make do with one even if you were planning on blasting out a pint of fizzy gravy the second your cheeks touched the seat (which, given that they stored our breaktime 'milk' [it was actually a particularly aqueous variety of cheese, I'm convinced] on a throbbing metal strip heater, wasn't that unusual). Finally, and worst of all, her favourtie phrase was "You're for the high jump now, lad!", upon which she'd march you into the stock cupboard where there was an ACTUAL high jump she'd made herself out of two piles of Peak Maths textbooks and a length of garden cane. You had to jump over it without knocking it off or moving the books, otherwise she made it higher. You all remember how small those stock cupboards were, I trust - suffice to say, it was basically fucking impossible, and she'd just stand there grinning whilst applying more scarlet facepaste to her stumpy yellow teeth and scratching her fetid mimsy through her vomitous pink wool two-piece.

On the upside, she always did make a proper nice Sunday roast, and was always fairly forthcoming with the odd fiver on Saturdays. Mum, all is forgiven. :)
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