A/N: This story is a satire of a current teacher of Bewbush Academy and former teacher of Jessie Younghusband School. Not 100% accurate or to be taken completely seriously, and can be taken down if necessary and at the person's wish.

Nonetheless, aforementioned teacher as I remember him was many things he is described here, including being someone who was very much pro-system, orthodox and who disliked critical thinkers.

The story tells of one thing that actually happened (just not with this particular beginning or ending), and the shouting and threats of no privilege time were indeed something Lee Jerromes used on our class one day to find a culprit of something that may not have even been done by any one of us. It is also true that he downgraded homework essays on the premise the handwriting wasn't typefont esque, and for use of the word 'said' - in the words of Lee, 'said' is boring Fred (despite it being used in bestsellers and as an integral part of the English language). Banning the word 'said' in homework was one example of the narrow-minded thinking of Mr. Jerromes, forcing his students to scour the dictionary for alternative and sometimes awkward-sounding (depending on context) synonyms, because hey, he's "teaching" and that's "progress".

Assuming he hasn't changed, this satire serves to parody the methods used by this individual for the enjoyment of students who've been under his tuition at any one time and/or their parents. Enjoy!

"WHO – WAS IT?!"

The harsh, but well-honed drones of Lee Jerromes reverberated from his tiny en-suite. Wrath and indignation exploded from every pore of his authoritarian being, his eyes shut fast against his own reflection in the mirror, bare naked but for a suit tie dangling from his neck. His staple, his trademark, what have you – his tie. The attire he valued above all, his declaration to the world that he was only second a human being and first a mindless churchgoer, his body and soul completely owned by Lord Jesus, independent thought long stamped out of him.

"WHO – " Lee repeated, with more a pause between emphasised bellows, " – WAS IT?!"

Practice made perfect, and Lee was such satisfied that finally the light went off and he retreated to his single bed. The wind hammered his window and his dreams that night were in fact nightmares that perhaps he had NOT practiced enough, and the classroom of eleven-year-olds he was due to face the following morning would not cower to his unnecessary shouting, and would instead laugh at him – and then with the only disciplinary measure at his disposal rendered useless (the cane being abolished before the turn of the century, a decision he deplored), he may never know "who was it".

Lee tossed and turned as he tried to no avail for slumber. He could not stand non-conformity in any sense. He was a thirty-year-old Christian man, a proud one. An absolute conformist of his religion and steadfast belief that every boy grew to a man at eighteen years and from there, their life's worth was at the complete dispense of the system and government, and biblical ideals.

Lee held his tie like a cuddly toy which was still fastened around his neck. He felt comforted whenever he thought of the Bible. There had been many revisions to it and Christian ideals, both written and verbal (from the Pope's mouth, no less) to the point that even if there was a shred of integrity of truth within from times B.C., there were neigh now; but, Lee assured himself, there was one word he could use as a shield to covet his beliefs against all attacks thrown from the realms of science and logic and other things he despised, and that word was "faith". He had faith that rags were of truth, and conformity was to be met in life then rewarded in Heaven, and non-conformity punished in Hell. He knew it so: it had to be true, because far from being out of the goodness of his heart, the good deeds in his life he had accumulated like a holy manifesto were done in the fear of the Devil. And so he lived by the light, in the light, devoutly (out of fear, not goodwill).

A primary school teacher, his classroom M.O was gaslighting and corrupting young minds to believe that only his way of thinking and abiding was correct. Those that proposed individualism would be corrected with due punishment, words with parents behind closed doors, and a referral or two to the senior buzzard of narrow-minded thinking, Marion Hanson-Smith, headmistress of Jessie Younghusband School. He, Mr. Jerromes, was her loyal underling. A faithful puppet in the pursuit of the total subjugation of children's independent thought, and conversion to faith and conformity to the adult working world.

It was morning before Lee Jerromes knew it, and he met his eleven-year-old students with residual anticipation from the night before. He took the register amidst stutters from pupils, as if they knew in their hearts what awaited. When the thirty-sixth name was called and they were present, Lee let the roster and clipboard fall to the ground with a thud that made kids jump. He relished the momentary fear in their faces like an old vampire.

Lee let one hand drift to his tie, and the other to his forehead. He stroked his perfectly spherical head, and felt where his hairline had once been. He then corrected his glasses. His glasses which gave his eyes an explosive appearance like a rabid dog's, that were settled upon his ears around which a modest amount of hair still remained (unlike the rest of his scalp), although the tone was the most dull shade of corporate brown you could imagine.

"As some of you know, someone's drawn a rude picture on the wall of the girl's bathroom with graffiti," Lee addressed the class, as he slumped into his high chair. "We have been told to ask our classes about this. You're the oldest here and you set the standard for the younger children. I'm not saying that because you're the oldest it's definitely one of you who'd have the permanent graffiti marker, or that you'd have the best gonaddrawing facility with it. In fact, I'd like to believe it wasn't even someone from this school. But I'm asking for an open confession, if you did it or you know who did, please raise your hand."

He looked around. There was a mixture of bewilderment and fear, but not guilt as far as he could tell. Nevertheless he persisted, in a voice so soft with pretend sympathy it was almost a whisper.

"I don't think it was any of you, but you still need to be honest if it wasn't. You're role models for the younger children. If you were in any way involved or you know who it was, come forward. We might have a word with your parents but then we can forget it ever happened. Just come forward. It's fine."

His students' expressions were now laced with amused disbelief, which only incensed Lee further. Nobody was falling for it - everyone knew the consequences of an open confession were deeper than the teacher let on.

It was time for Lee to use his 'honed disciplinary measure'.

"WHO – WAS IT?"

Lee Jerromes' bellow exploded from his round mug, making all (not just many) kids jump – in both his classroom and neighbouring ones. He became reminiscent of a time when he'd had the kids at his mercy cross-legged on the floor whilst he'd been flaunting homework essays in their faces like repossession warrants.

"SCRAPPY!" he'd shouted at the then ten-year-olds, brandishing an essay that had ten marks for content but only nine for handwriting (it was legible and would've sufficed in the real working world, but Jessie Younghusband, and Mr. Jerromes had an OFSTED reputation and derived income to think about, respectively – the school's priority was beating the national average at the expense of the children's peace of mind).

Lee could barely suppress a smirk: he was a pianist, he loved music and sound. The sound of his own fortissimo voice. Marcato on key words, in this case the "WHO". This was part of the gaslighting: he was essentially using intimidation tactics (whilst hiding behind a declared "best interest" of his children at heart) as a weapon to veil the fact it was all about himself, his fear of non-conformity and atheism, of bad OFSTED reports, and his unreasonably high expectations of God's servants that weren't actually in the slightest bit reflective of the adult working life.

"No privilege time this Friday," he said, to the disappointed groans of many. The emotional blackmail had begun. Some boys in the corner were even exchanging anguished whispers trying to coax one another into being the scapegoat, despite being completely innocent. The sacrificial lamb that would spare the rest. Lee was aware of the possibility of a goat (he'd memorised the Book of Leviticus cover-to-cover, after all), but was grateful for the opportunity to reduce a child to tears even if they were.

None from the Last Supper had offered to be crucified, so Lee opened his gob for a recapitulation that would've impressed Pavarotti.

"WHO – WAS IT?"

This time a longer pause between syllables. All practiced and honed to the best of his vocal virtuoso.

The walls trembled. Lee opened his gob again, ready for a third trill, but then Marion Hanson-Smith came in.

"I don't want to believe it was anyone from this school," the buzzard said, after lecturing the students about how "she'd been round all the classrooms asking". "But if anyone does know who it is… could you raise your hand, please."

Radio silence again. Lee Jerromes stepped forward. He was now so incensed that steam appeared to dissipate from his ears. Whilst his senior, Marion Hanson-Smith, stewed like a cauldron manned over a kindle, Lee was now like a furnace. He was going to explode like the boiler did in the fictional Overlook hotel in the last few pages of Stephen Hawking's The Shining, and destroy the premises. His head was about to skyrocket to the moon, and a fountain of blood was going to erupt from the opening of his neck in its absence and graffiti-stain the walls.

"WHO – " Lee began, when his foot caught the clipboard he'd dropped earlier. The clip snapped on his big toe like a mousetrap and he wailed in falsetto with pain.

The entire class and Marion Hanson-Smith burst out laughing at him. Lee ran from the room, crying hysterically. He didn't stop running until he'd skirted the playground into staff parking zone and thrown himself into his car. He drove for the midlands, straight to his parents' residence, and burst from his car door, still in tears, still with the mousetrap stuck on his big toe, hammering away on their front door like a repentant on the gates of heaven.

"Oh, Lee," simpered his mum (for want of a better word than 'said'. Said is boring Fred, after all). With a heartfelt embrace, she held her thirty-year-old son's spherical head as he wept into her arms. "Who refuted the Bible this time?"

She cradled his head as she marched him to the spare bedroom, tucked him in and read to him his favourite bedtime story: the one about the invisible man in the sky.