March
DEATH TOLL IN BANGLADESH CONTINUES TO RISE
1 IN 10 SCHOOL STARTERS OBESE
BOMB BLAST KILLS 45 PEOPLE IN PAKISTAN
Sitting in my classroom with the morning paper, I found myself wondering how suicide could possibly be only the twelfth leading cause of death in the world. How were there not more people looking around at the mess that we, the human race, had created and wanting to check out early before things got any worse? For one half of the world, poverty, violence, war, starvation and disease violated their existence, punctuating every day with fear. I knew how lucky I was not to be born into that side of life, but what did the developed world have to offer? Gluttonous, greedy, selfish wankers who prance around poisoning the planet with fancy cars and destroying their own healthy lungs with toxic smoke. Stuffing their clean arteries full of mushy, yellow, stinking fat every time they take a bite of that bacon sandwich or juicy rib-eye steak. Drowning their healthy livers with booze. Filling their kids' fat stomachs with junk food. How could anyone, regardless of which side they were on, look around at modern society and think that staying on this Earth was a good idea? Every atrocity that I read in that paper made me more determined not to see the first sunrise of 2014. Don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to say that my decision to commit suicide was due to anything other than selfish reasoning, but I was ashamed of so many things that the human race stood for. As my tutor group shuffled into the room for morning registration, I put the newspaper to one side and reached for a slip of paper.
Con: Living in a world ravaged by ignorant and negligent twats.
My days at school were passing as slowly as shit through a sieve. I was almost a quarter of the way through my twelve-month agreement and had been granted no sign whatsoever that the Universe intended to reward my perseverance. If being mugged continued to be the most exciting thing that had happened to me in 2013, I wasn't entirely sure I could last until December 31st. With this in mind, I used one quiet week night to research a little further into my own demise. Just to cheer myself up.
Although I knew that choosing one of the top three suicide methods gave me the best chance, something attracted me towards number four like a magnet: jumping from a height. Despite its measly 60% success rate, what other method could offer such freedom, such escapism, such final, fleeting liberation as free-falling hundreds of feet through the air right before expiration? Plus, the 60% was totally dependent on the height of the building. Stories of successful jumpers online seemed to report that 50-60 feet was a promising place to start, but there was still a lot of risk involved at that level; I didn't want to end up just having my legs shattered or living with paralysis. God, that was the only way in which my life could get worse. No, my new motto became: the higher the better.
The highest suicide jump ever documented was that of Charles Bruce, a skilled skydiver, who jumped 5,000 feet out of a plane without a parachute. He certainly wasn't one of the 96% pitiful suicide attempts that end in failure every year. I didn't have enough money in my bank account to book a skydive, so a high building in Sheffield would have to suffice. From living in the city for years, I was aware that the University Arts' Tower was probably one of Sheffield's highest structures but I needed to ensure that it overtook my other option: City Hall. A few moments of clicking around online assured me that not only did the Arts' Tower have a lead of over 50 feet, but it was also the second tallest building in the whole city. The Arts' Tower was used primarily as a base for Sheffield University's Architecture students; its link to architecture was ironic, considering that it was undoubtedly one of the ugliest buildings ever constructed. At least the students inside didn't have to look at the damn thing. Perhaps walking towards it every morning was supposed to act as inspiration for them to never design such an eyesore. I closed my eyes to picture the scene, to figure out whether this location suited my own image of the end: standing alone in the unforgiving December wind, staring out over Sheffield's firework-splattered skyline, almost 100 metres above street level. I could almost hear the whistling of the wind and the sounds of party poppers and cheering down on the street below. I could see the hosts of drunken bystanders swarming out of various drinking establishments onto the streets like frenzied little ants, clueless as to the imminent carnage they would witness. Checking my watch repeatedly, fastidiously, I would be careful not to miss the precious moment. And, finally, as that momentous countdown began, I would stretch out my arms, take a deep breath and swoop to my inevitable death. Well, I hoped it would be 'inevitable'; a 256 feet plummet seemed like a sure thing.
What a memorable New Year's Eve I would provide for that little gathering of idiotic strangers beneath! It was actually rather generous of me, if you really thought about it. They'd all become overnight celebrities; they'd probably be invited to conduct interviews with TV news broadcasters and everything, let alone the possibilities opened up for small talk: 'Did you hear about that Arts' Tower jumper on New Year's Eve? Yeah, well I was there! No, I mean right there, on Bolsover Street – close enough to see his head spray all over the pavement and everything. I think I might even have some of his blood on my jacket - look!'
Yes, it was perfect. With a date and a method, I was all set; I finally had something to look forward to. All I had to do now was go along with the pros and cons bullshit and try to hold off until December. For Jay's sake. He had enough going on trying to balance work and caring for his mum without having me to worry about as well. Although she was feeling a little better than she had for a while, she was fading fast and we all knew it.
Making my way up the stairs to our flat one night after another futile day at work, I heard the dreaded sounds of a weeknight house party. Diet Coke often had people round mid-week. I guess it didn't really matter whether it was 10pm on a Saturday or 9am on a Wednesday when you spent your life in a perpetual bubble of heroin and cocaine. But they weren't usually this loud. Perhaps Old Shit had finally popped her clogs and some students had moved in, attracted by the cheap rent. Lazy, pompous students would be even worse than Old Shit. Sleeping in until mid-afternoon and banging on about how their gap year in South East Asia really allowed them to 'find themselves'. Eurgh. Why the Bible suggested 'Love thy neighbour' was something I could never understand.
Nearing the top steps, the realization sunk in that the thumping beats of Swedish House Mafia were coming from my flat. And Jay hated dance music – I mean truly detested it – he was more of a Blink 182 or Sum 41 kind of guy. Whoever was behind that door was somebody he was trying to impress.
I entered quietly and rounded the corner into the lounge to an extremely unfamiliar sight: two attractive, blonde girls were dancing in the small space between the sofa and the T.V. Their arms circled each other's slim waists and they rocked their hips rhythmically from left to right. Their foreheads were pressed together and they stared at Jay mischievously from under their painted lashes. One of the girls wore a short, tight, black skirt and a patterned top that showed most of her stomach. And it was a stomach worth showing off. The other was dressed in blue jeans that clung defensively to the long, lean line of her legs. On her top half, the tassels dangling from her white top swayed seductively close to her groin.
'Fuck me!' I didn't mean to say it out loud. I cleared my throat loudly. 'Sorry, I mean…hi.' The girls glanced over at me and giggled, foreheads still stuck firmly together. I was beginning to wonder whether they were Siamese twins. Would I still have sex with them if they were Siamese twins? How would that even work…one of my hands on each of them…and then their four hands on me? That sounded like a pretty good deal. I was ready to sign up.
'Simon!' Jay cheered, turning his head towards me but leaving his eyes trained firmly on the show. 'Grab a beer and sit down, mate.'
I joined him on the sofa. 'What the hell's going on? Where did you find these two?'
'I thought I'd invite some friends over from, err…work. So that we could celebrate.'
'Celebrate what?' I asked, wondering why I hadn't spent more time in Blockbuster if that's what the staff looked like. Everyone I'd seen in there looked like a poster-child for abortion.
'With it being the 5th of March?'
'What's so bloody special about the 5th of March?'
Jay's eyes moved towards the floor, breaking contact with the girls for the first time. 'So, I guess my mum really was the only person to remember my birthday.'
'Sorry, mate. I totally forgot.' In all honesty, I wasn't sure I'd ever really taken notice of when Jay's birthday was. 'Right, you crack open that bottle of Jägermeister we've had in since New Year and I'll change this shit music. Let's give you a birthday to remember.'
A few hours (and two rather boisterous games of Ring of Fire) later, a pile of empty Budweiser bottles and shot glasses lay in a heap on the floor alongside Marta's skin-tight blue jeans. She straddled Jay on the sofa, twiddling his forest of chest hair into copses with her fingers and arching her back. Krysta stood behind me, massaging my shoulders and whispering very rude things in my ear. I wasn't going to be able to give her any of the filth she was asking for if I didn't stop drinking. Slowly, I put my bottle down on the floor next to my foot and tried to focus my vision on the Trainspotting poster on the wall behind the T.V. If I could focus on this, I might just be able to focus on pleasing a woman. An incredibly hot woman at that.
Choose life.
Choose a job.
Choose a career.
Choose a family.
Wait. Job… Career… Shit. Work! Time? 2:06am. 4 hours - have to be up in 4 hours.
I brushed Krysta's hands off the back of my neck and stood up too quickly. My head swam and I stumbled to the right, kicking the beer bottle over and emptying its warm, flat contents all over the floor. It began to seep through the toes of my sock.
'Jay. I goin' bed.'
'But I- wait! Simon!'
'G'night. Jay. Ladies.'
'But I- I paid them until- (hiccup) 'til the mor- mor- (hiccup) -ning. Y- you haven't even (hiccup) shagged yours yet!'
Paid them? Paid them for what? Walking in a straight line was so much effort that I couldn't focus on whatever nonsense Jay was spouting. I think Krysta may have followed me at first, but I slammed the bedroom door pretty hard behind me. That seemed to send a clear enough message.
I woke abruptly in the night, heart thumping and room unsteady. Had I missed my alarm? Was I late for work?
'Uh. Uh. Uh.'
It was 5:15am. Someone was giggling.
'Uh. Uh. Uh. Uh. Uh.'
Where is that noise coming from?
'You naughty, sweaty boy.'
'Uh. Uh. Uh. I am a naughty boy. A naughty, sweaty boy.'
Something was banging against Jay's wall in interrupted, fitful patterns. I moved to stand up and check that he was all right but the walls started waltzing around me the moment I lifted my head. I closed my eyes and waited for the spinning to stop.
'That good, yes? You like it when I touch her here, yes? You're such a naughty little boy.'
I felt myself drifting.
'Uhh. Uhhh. Yes. I am a naughty boy. Uhh. Ohhhhhh.'
Jay's voice echoed away and welcome, sturdy darkness rescued me from my dizzy confusion.
There can't be many jobs out there that are harder to attempt with a hangover than teaching. At least in an office job there is a chance of slumping quietly at your desk, keeping your head down and skiving your way through the day. In teaching, you've got no chance.
'Woah, you look like shit!' Kyran lifted his head off the desk to comment, as I entered the room late for my first lesson of the day. Kyran Kershaw was a bit of a celebrity around the school, known predominantly for his ability to reduce even the most resilient of teachers to a stress-related sick note. He refused to wear school uniform, attending instead dressed in a navy blue, Adidas tracksuit. His dark hair was cropped very short and he had his personal motto –
If Your Not Wasted, The Day Is.
- inked on his right forearm. The day he got the tattoo, he came to show it off to me proudly. He laughed when I said the only thing I didn't like about it was the absence of the apostrophe. Poor sod clearly thought I was speaking some kind of alien language. Grammatical proficiency wasn't exactly Kyran's strong point.
I'd inherited Kyran's class almost three years ago when I had joined the school. At the time, the Head of Department had used words like 'challenging' and 'dynamic' to describe the group of brainless chimps I would be facing in what was then 9XP (now 11XP). As a naïve, brand new teacher, I had no idea what the Head of Department's words actually indicated. In the same way that an estate agent might describe a ridiculously small house as 'cosy', or an entirely dilapidated one as 'rustic', a class described as 'challenging' meant that you should probably wear a hard hat and a bullet-proof vest for the first few weeks. 'Challenging' had meant that I was to dive head first into the role of zookeeper for 26 uncontrollable, individual nightmares.
'Excuse me?' I prompted.
'Sorry. I mean, you look like shit, sir.'
Well, that's an improvement at least. Plus, at least I look like shit because I've consumed half a bottle of Jägermeister and had four hours' sleep. You, you acne-infested, greasy, little turd, have to look like that every single day of your life. 'Good morning to you too, Kyran. So, where were we? Act I, Scene III, if I remember rightly.'
Con: Drinking on a school night.
By lunchtime, it felt like an atomic bomb had gone off somewhere inside me, sending splinters of nausea whirling into my stomach and thrashing pains into my temples. Usually, I ate lunch at my desk, avoiding the awkward, forced conversation that came along with having colleagues. What did I have in common with the English Department: a bunch of middle-aged, dowdy mums and a twenty-one-year old teacher-training student who looked as though she might have a nervous breakdown at any moment? Nevertheless, after a morning trapped in my classroom, I needed a break; the combination of stifling radiator heat, fluorescent lights and a view of the dreary Modern Foreign Languages block didn't exactly do much to cure a hangover. Unable to face the English Office, I headed for the staffroom. Once you entered, you had to make a quick decision. Option one: sit with the older teachers, ranting on and on about the good old days when educators were trusted to do their jobs and didn't need empty-headed politicians telling them what to do. Option two: sit with the I.T. technicians, who would sweat profusely and struggle to converse if any of the female P.E. teachers came in wearing a pair of shorts. Even the old one with the saggy knees seemed to get them going. Pathetic. Option three: sit with the cleaners, armed with thick, Yorkshire accents and the kind of language that could make your ears bleed. As I hovered by the door, pondering the best of three bad options, the pleading eyes of Noreen attacked the gaping vulnerability of my hangover. Noreen was a saggy-chested Maths teacher who had a son about my age. She smiled desperately and waved me over to join them. So, option one it was. I spent the rest of lunchtime listening to Noreen complain about the state of today's youth, whilst her rancid coffee breath stretched its gangly fingers down my throat and urged my lunch to come back up. Lesson learned: next time, even when facing the darkest depths of a septic hangover, stay in your safe space.
When Period 5 discovered me, forcing me once again to stand in front of a room full of 10XT's juvenile delinquents, I was a lit fuse. Whenever I found myself in a mood like this, I did my best to warn classes from the offset that today was not the day to mess with me. This was intended in no way to save them from potential consequences; it was intended to save me from being sacked for beating one of my students around the face with a dictionary. Purposefully, I flamed down the corridor, propelling every student in my path back against the walls and away from my heat. I unlocked the classroom door with such force that it slammed back into the blue wall and cracked the plaster. When you follow that kind of entrance with a stomp across to your desk and a thump of your laptop onto the surface, most kids will simmer down and wait to wind you up on a different day.
'Look at the way we analysed stanza one of Hardy's poem yesterday. You've got 30 minutes to do the same for the second stanza. Do it in SILENCE or, I swear to God, you will see a side to me that you wish you hadn't,' I warned. The Extreme Twats received my signals loud and clear and settled down to work without much fuss. I use the term 'work' loosely here; most of my students had learned that I'd leave them alone if they sat mutely. I didn't care whether they were daydreaming, napping or covertly scribbling ejaculating penises on the corners of their desks – as long as they were silent, I was happy.
Almost fifteen minutes into the lesson, my headache was subsiding and my hands had stopped shaking. I sat at the front of the room pretending to read from a poetry anthology but actually texting Jay with my phone hidden under the desk.
Wed 6 March 14:13
How's the head?
Wrecked
Mate, last night was epic
I don't feel too epic right now.
No, shit, me neither
Had the mother of all dumps at work
Felt a bit better after that
Nice.
Did I hear what I thought I heard in the middle of the night?
Dude, a gentleman never tells
Both? Same time?
You know me – always like to get my money's worth ;)
Maaaaaaate. High five.
The classroom door swung open and in meandered Morgan Fenwick. Apparently, my day hadn't been difficult enough already. I ignored her entirely, including her lack of punctuality, and returned to fake-reading my poetry anthology.
'What the fuck's happenin' in 'ere then?' she began.
'Watch your language and sit down.'
'What's up w' you lot? Why yer all doin' work?'
'Morgan, sit down. Now,' I instructed. Before I break my knuckles on your face.
'What's up w' you an' all?' she asked, turning to face me. 'You look proper mardy today, sir. An' yer head's all sweaty. Eurgh – that is proper disgustin'.'
My headache was back with a vengeance; just the sound of her voice was enough. 'Morgan. Not today. Seriously. Just go and sit down like a good little girl and get on with your work. Hardy: second stanza.'
'If you can't even be bothered to 'ave a shower before yer come to school, how can I be expected to do me work?'
'Morgan, I'm not kidding. Just sit down and shut up before I-'
'Before yer what?' I said nothing. Another wave of nausea flooded through me, and blood thumped against my temples. 'Come on, sir. Before yer what? What yer gonna do?' she taunted.
'Morgan. Just. Sit. DOWN.'
She took a step towards my desk. 'Make me.'
I'd love to blame the hangover for what happened next, but I think it was just my boundless hatred for the girl. I was up on my feet in a shot and standing far too close to her. My 6 foot 3 frame towered over her and I breathed hard into her face. A tiny flash of fear flickered in her eyes. This was dangerous territory and we both knew it. She was just a fifteen-year-old girl but I wanted nothing more than to cause her physical pain. I envisaged my fist in the middle of her obnoxious face, concaving her nose and sending her teeth splicing into her gums. The silence in the room was palpable. Rows and rows of open mouths gaped in my direction. Morgan, feigning confidence, kept her eyes locked on mine, daring me to make my next move.
I surveyed my options. I couldn't hurt her physically; I needed my job to pay rent – even if it was only until the end of the year. So, I chose a different tact: such a low blow that I hoped she might even punch me in the face. At least then I'd be sent home on full pay and Morgan could go straight to the Young Offenders' Institution (where we all knew she'd end up eventually). 'Well, Morgan, I suppose I could phone your mother and let her know you're struggling to behave in my lessons? I might even have to invite her into school for another,' I narrowed my eyes into hers meaningfully, 'private meeting.' I moved so close to her that I could smell her cheap body-spray and whispered in her ear. 'I mean, the last meeting with her was so, mmm, pleasurable that I wouldn't mind another go.' Morgan's face glowed volcanic red. I smiled at her knowingly and waited for the fireworks. Slowly, silently, she returned to her seat but her eyes never left me. If looks could kill, they'd probably have needed dental records to identify my obliterated body.
The thought of attempting to cook in a post-heavy-drinking kitchen sent actual shivers down my spine. The chip shop I passed every night on my way home, aptly named 'The Cod Father', seemed to be a much more appealing option. As I parked up outside, I thought of phoning Jay to check whether he wanted anything; having never seen him turn down an offer of takeaway food, or any food for that matter, I decided not to waste my credit.
The inside of the chip shop was warm and smelt familiar. When I was young, we were allowed fish and chips once a month as a special treat. Mum was very well read on the subject of children's health and nutrition, and she kept a very close eye on what Emma and I ate as we grew up. While our friends existed on diets of crisps and slices of canteen pizza, Emma and I were given packed lunches of cottage cheese, carrot sticks and mixed nuts for school. Takeaways were generally out of the question, but Dad argued that a monthly treat wouldn't do us any harm. On the last day of every month, Dad would take me with him to the local chippy to pick up our order. He called it our 'father and son bonding time'. I still remember reaching the front of the queue; how my mouth would stream with saliva as soon as I heard the words:
'Salt and vinegar on these?'
'Salt on three of them, please, but make sure you leave one plain,' Dad would say to the man behind the counter. And then he would wink at me. Mum would be able to smell vinegar but she wouldn't notice a sprinkling of salt. On the way home, I would sit in the passenger seat – so happy, so content – and Dad would put the bag on my knee. The warmth would seep under my skin and the scent would trespass into my nostrils. I remember how hard it was not to rip into the packages and stuff my face right there and then. Dad would distract me by asking how school was going and I would fill him in, trying to impress him with every detail. Our relationship was so strong back then. Back before I knew tha-
'I hear she sneezes into the batter.' I jumped a little, startled by the noise that ripped me from my reverie and brought me back to the present. Behind me, so close that I could feel her breath on my skin, stood a pale-faced girl with a mischievous smile. She was probably about twenty but she looked younger. As I glanced around, she nodded towards the ruddy-faced woman behind the counter.
'Excuse me?'
'The chef. Over there.' She nodded again.
'I'm sorry – do I know you?'
'You do now.' She flashed another brief, wide-eyed smile and moved even closer into my personal space. Her pupils were wide and pulsing, like liquid ink spilling out onto spongy moss. 'You do realise, I'm talking proper wet sneezes; yer know, where big globules fly everywhere. I'm serious.' Suddenly, her eyes hardened and her mouth set into a stern line. Somehow, though, she still gave off the impression that she could break into fits of hysterical laughter at any moment. 'Did yer know that snot travels upwards of 100 miles an hour?'
I turned away, hoping that my silent gesture would be enough to discourage her from speaking to me any longer. I tried to focus on the flushed face of the accused woman, dutifully sifting greasy chips into polystyrene containers.
'Hey, Mister, 'aven't you heard?'
Oh for God's sake… I glimpsed behind me.Thankfully, the weirdo wasn't talking to me any longer; she had moved back a few spaces in the queue and was harassing some other poor idiot in a tweed jacket.
'She adds her toenail clippings to the sausage meat – yer know, to flesh it out a little bit.'
Jesus, what a fruit-loop. She had the biggest eyes I'd ever seen – probably an indication that she was on drugs. The green of her irises contrasted hideously with the lime colour of her hair. I hated it when people dyed their hair ridiculous shades, begging for attention and an elevation of their self-esteem by soaking their scalps in chemical oxidants. About a year ago, Old Shit had dyed her hair bright blue. I don't know whether it was some kind of hideous accident or whether she was trying to cover up the giveaway grey hairs sprouting all over her skull. I do know that I almost dropped my takeaway latte all over my own shoes when we first crossed paths on the stairs.
'Oi, are you wantin' to order owt or not?' In my distraction, I had failed to notice the queue in front of me dispersing entirely.
'Sorry. Two large fish and chips please. One without peas. Salt and vinegar on both.' I hated mushy peas. If I wanted my food in the form of pulp, I was quite capable of chewing and then regurgitating it myself. I turned to check whether the green-haired girl had left. She hadn't, and I accidentally caught her eye. Why did I even care where she was? Why was I allowing this nutter to bother me?
'Psssst.' I refused to look but could hear that her voice was quieter now; she must have reached the far end of the queue. The traffic on the street outside almost punched above her volume. 'Have yer noticed that she's not wearing gloves? Never does. If only she'd wash her hands after visitin' toilet…'
By the time I left, the nut job was nowhere to be seen. I didn't feel much like eating my fish and chips when I got home, which thrilled Jay. For some reason, I couldn't seem to shake the image of 100 mile-an-hour snot globules flying into my mouth.
Con: Escaped loonies in the chip shop.
Every Thursday, I taught double English to 7SB (the 'SB' this time standing for 'Silent Buggers'). With most older classes, the problems tended to centre around: misbehaviour, swearing, throwing chairs, refusing to complete work, general lethargy, and them hiding each other's possessions. You, as a teacher, were responsible for simultaneously keeping track of the words and actions of 30 idiots, alongside your responsibility to try and educate them in the ways of Shakespeare, Woolf or Dickens. With classes of new-to-secondary-school, quiet, painfully obedient Year 7 students, the problems were somewhat different: you, as a teacher, might die of boredom. Having been a part of the profession for almost 6 years, I'd taught several Year 7 classes; not once had I learned any of their names. There was no point - kids didn't get interesting until Year 8 or 9.
'Right, listen up and get your planners out: it's homework time,' I announced as our two-hour period came to a close. Year 7s didn't even groan when you gave them homework. They just dutifully wrote down every word you said, submissively accepting your rules like little worker ants. 'I want you to write me a short essay about Mr Cartright in Flour Babies. In your essay, I want you to explain why you do or don't like his character. No more than 300 words. Ok, have we got that? Write a SHORT ESSAY about MR CARTRIGHT from FLOUR BABIES, explaining WHY you DO OR DON'T LIKE HIM. 300 words max.'
I found that you had to repeat things a lot for Year 7. You also had to speak very slowly and use simple vocabulary. And avoid sarcasm. Sarcasm was wasted on them. It was rather like having a classroom full of old-aged pensioners.
Instantly, twelve hands shot up. Year 7s also liked to ask a lot of questions. 99% of their questions were so utterly trivial that you were forced to wonder whether these kids had been raised by brainless lemmings.
'Sir? Sir? Do I take my book home and write it in there? Or do I ask you for paper to write it on? Or should I ask my mum for paper?'
'If I write it on paper, should I write it on lined paper or on plain paper?'
'Can I put my name on my homework in bubble writing?'
'Can I underline the title of my homework?'
'Can I write it in green pen?'
God, help me.
As they began to pack their planners away and tidy up ready to move to their next lessons, one weedy little lad at the front put his hand up. His face was pale with anxiety and he looked as though he might wet his pants. I sighed and moved over to his small, shaking frame. 'What's the matter with you?'
His large, amber eyes began to dilute. Apparently, even talking directly to this little pansy could reduce him to tears. Finally, he mustered the courage to quietly ask me: 'Sorry, sir, but you keep asking us to write an 'S.A.' and I don't understand… What does 'S.A.' stand for?'
Walking from my classroom to the car park just after 3pm was always my favourite part of the day; it meant that I wasn't due back in work for over 16 hours. When I'd first started teaching, I hadn't owned a car and had therefore been forced to use public transport, which I detested. It added almost an hour and a half onto my daily commute and also meant that I ended up trapped on the tram with other teachers from the school, having awkward conversations about the weather and the fact that the price of a return ticket had gone up by 20p. Then, luckily for me, my Grandma Lyons died in her sleep – that was in 2007. Mum and Dad decided to keep hold of her Corsa because, despite its age, it was in excellent condition. It was a P reg. silver automatic with less than 40,000 miles on the clock; Grandma had only used it to ferry herself between her bungalow just outside Chester and the supermarket a few miles away. It was swiftly decided that a car would enable me to visit home more often, since the excuse I cited most frequently was 'difficult travel arrangements'. When Dad taxed it and drove it up to me fully insured, how could I refuse?
Sadly for them, I'd only visited home four times in the five years I'd owned the car. My sister would tell them: You can lead a horse to water but you can't make it drink. I think that bullshit was somehow supposed to make them feel better about having a son who would avoid seeing them, or the family home, at all costs. Being back there didn't exactly evoke great memories.
Rounding the corner into the car park that Thursday afternoon, I noticed that a group of colleagues had gathered around my car; they were pointing and shaking their heads. It was hardly the type of vehicle people would gather around to admire, so I knew something must be wrong. I reached the back of the murmuring crowd and peered over the broad shoulders of an ugly, senior Science teacher I'd never bothered to learn the name of. Running from the right-hand side of the bonnet and across both doors, the word
MUTHERFUCKER
had been scratched into the paintwork. A flurry of whispered communication greeted me:
'Is there anything I can do to help?'
'Who do you think it was, Simon?'
'I'm sure it's nothing personal - just an overzealous prank.'
'Shall I go and get something to cover it up with, in case there are still any students left in the building?'
I assured everyone that I didn't need any help and that I would see the Head the next morning in order to get the issue ironed out. I wasn't intending on seeing the Head at all; I didn't want anyone questioning any of the students…especially not Morgan Fenwick. I couldn't be 100% sure that she was responsible, but the evidence all pointed in her direction: she hated me and always had; I'd wound her up the other day; her spelling was appalling; and, in all fairness, I was fucking her 'muther'.
Jay and I had decided to make fish-and-chip-night into a weekly occurrence. For me, it was a new method of shoving two imaginary fingers up at my mum. For Jay, it was just more deep-fried food. As sad as it sounds, it also gave us something to look forward to. You know your life's leading somewhere pretty dismal when the thought of a few fried potato sticks gets your heart beating faster (especially since those things will eventually slow it down and clog it up altogether). I, of course, had been nominated to collect our meals on my way home from work every Thursday; God forbid Jay should actually get up off his arse and move somewhere. This particular week, a new venue was on trial: 'The Star Chip Enterprise'. Upon entry, I reluctantly joined the short queue: a short queue in a chip shop is never a good sign.
'Excuse me, sir,' whispered a familiar voice in my ear. 'I don't mean to alarm yer, but I'm pretty sure I just saw a rat run out from inside the kitchen back there.'
Oh God, not again. I turned around and there she was: all big, green eyes and stupid hair. A brown fur coat enveloped her small frame and I couldn't help but wonder whether she-
'I'm just sayin' because, if I were you, I'd probably go and order my dinner from elsewhere. Three places in Sheffield have just closed down 'cause of rats - did yer know that? I heard it on't radio. I like Radio One best but me dad swears by Radio Four. Anyway, alls I'm sayin' is that yer've got to be careful where yer go these days.' As I began to open my mouth in response, she went on. 'Did yer know that there's a type of rat that lives in the desert that can survive without any water even longer than a camel can? It's called a Kangaroo Rat. In't that weird? 'Cause camels can go about ten days without water! If anything, it should be called a Camel Rat, not a Kangaroo Rat. Don't yer think that would make more sense? Humans are so lame compared to animals.' Her eyes were so wide with enthusiasm that it was virtually impossible not to smile when you looked at her. Although I would never have admitted it at the time, there was a kind of childlike innocence about her that even the most cynical bone in my body found endearing.
'What are you avin', love?' The gruff voice of the server interrupted.
'Oh, sorry. Erm, two large portions of fish and chips. Salt and vinegar on both. One without peas. One large curry sauce. One large battered sausage. And six chicken nuggets.' I spun, eager to explain that the order wasn't just for me – most of it was for a very large, insatiable friend who had been previously disappointed by a lack of 'side dishes'. However, the shop was empty behind me. She'd disappeared again.
Driving home, I felt strangely elevated. She was clearly insane, but at least she'd brightened an otherwise dull Thursday.
Pro: Escaped loonies in the chip shop.
'Have you got a girlfriend, sir?' Courtney Weston of 11XP shouted from the back of the classroom. 'My little sister's mate, Talia, reckons she saw yer chattin' to a girl in't chippy the other night.' Courtney was a gobby cow.
'I don't really see how my love life is relevant to Romeo & Juliet, Courtney,' I retorted.
'It's a love story though, in't it, sir?'
Smart little shit. 'Well spotted, Courtney. Shall we carry on reading? Yes, good. So, Act I, Scene V. Who wants to be Lord Capulet?'
Charlie's hand shot into the air like a speeding bullet. 'Sir?'
It was hard to supress a smile at the thought that I might actually have a volunteer from 11XP to read a part. 'XP' had been affectionately nicknamed 'Excessive Pricks' when I first taught them in Year 9, and their personalities hadn't exactly improved since. However, I liked to think I had improved their confidence over the years and was finally ready to reap my rewards in volunteers. I was even more pleased that it was Charlie putting himself forward to take the part of Lord Capulet. Charlie was Courtney's twin brother. The two of them came from a 'difficult' background. 'Difficult' was yet another euphemism used in teaching to avoid saying what actually needed to be said. Mrs Weston had started drinking after her husband decided he was bored of violently abusing her and left her alone with 4-year-old twins. As a single mother with no job and a growing drinking problem, she resorted to prostitution and was now openly referred to as the local 'bike'. Charlie and Courtney regularly ended up in fights over derogatory epithets sniggered around the yard about their mother, or allegations from boys in Years 10 and 11 who would claim to have slept with her. Consequently, their minds weren't exactly focused on their studies and they were hardly what you'd call avid readers. I was just about to congratulate Charlie on his bravery, when he continued.
'Sir? So, if you don't 'ave a girlfriend, does that mean yer still living with that big, fat bloke we saw you with in town that time? That guy you told us was just yer mate?'
'Well, yes, Charlie, I do still live with him but I-'
'Eurgh! Sir's a bumder! Sir's a bumder!' he began chanting, motioning for all to join him. They did. It took 4 minutes and a visit from a passing Deputy Head to sedate the little wankers.
Con: Teenagers.
Another Thursday came round in no time and I was ready to venture into another new establishment: 'Heart & Sole'. Jay and I had decided to try all of the offerings within a three-mile radius of our flat; it made the weeks tick by a little quicker. With only two to go ('A Salt & Battery' and 'Batter the Devil you Know'), our pathetic little mission was almost complete.
I couldn't believe my eyes when I entered. Behind the counter, smiling like a lunatic and dishing out completely disproportionate quantities of food was the girl with the green hair. She was wearing a uniform, although it wouldn't have surprised me if she'd just snuck under the partition and thrown one on. Would anyone actually hire someone like her? Perhaps it was part of some mental health outreach programme. I wasn't sure whether to bolt straight back out; I couldn't face being put off another meal. She was bound to recognise me and fire more useless information at me concerning the habits of other desert rats and types of-
'Ready to order?'
Shit. I'd reached the front of the queue. 'Erm…what's good here?' What's good here? What is good here? What kind of a stupid fucking question it that?! It's a FISH and CHIP shop!
She turned to roll her eyes and snigger at the older woman sweating away behind the fryer. 'Hmmm, well, it is a complex menu but the fish and the chips are probably our best sellers.' They were laughing – her and the fryer woman. Laughing at me. I didn't like it.
'Two of each then - large.' No please. She didn't deserve a please. She busied her hands in the display counter, shoveling huge mounds into foamy takeaway cartons. It's me, I wanted to shout, although I couldn't figure out why. She clearly didn't remember me, and why should she? The only reason I could remember her was because she was so incredibly doolally.
'Can I get yer anythin' else?' She was smiling now. The kind of forged, wrinkle-less smile that she probably doled out to every customer. I shook my head. Jay could go out and get his own bloody side dishes if he was that bothered about them. I was sick of looking like a greedy bastard on his behalf. Why did I care whether I looked greedy to her? It wasn't even like she was that attractive. She was below average, if anything…definitely not out of my league. I'd slept with better looking girls than her before. And skinnier ones too. She'd be lucky to have me.
I walked out in a cloud of disappointment. Even if I was interested (which I wasn't), and even if she wasn't a total idiot (which she clearly was), my suicide pact rendered dating entirely pointless. What was the point in fraternising with any one particular female when you knew the Christmas present you bought her that year would be the last thing she'd have to remember you by? Well, that and the order of service from your funeral. The one with the picture of you on the front that your family selected after hours of umm-ing and ahh-ing, searching for the one precise image that made you look cheerful and flawless. Made you look like the perfect child. Made them look like the perfect, grieving family. No, it would be a waste of time to even look at girls over the next few months. I needed to focus on me. I needed to focus on reaching my goal.
'Who the hell's April?' Jay asked, unwrapping his spoils eagerly.
'What?'
'On the paper wrapped round my chip carton – look.'
Meet me. Saturday - Café Diem – 3pm.
April x
I waved it off and referred to her as 'some desperate bitch from the chippy' but I worried that Jay could see the surreptitious elation on my face.
If the girl with the lime hair could work up the courage to do something as simple as asking someone out, it struck me that a person with only a few months to live really could stand to take a few more risks. I couldn't quit my job and go backpacking around Cambodia or anything stupid like that (since I didn't have any savings and I wasn't a good-for-nothing silver spoon type), but there were bound to be a few life experiences I could tick off before I died. Plus, I was happy to embrace anything that might make the upcoming months drag a little less. I thought about involving Jay in my bucket list process but I feared it might seem a little tasteless, what with his mum gradually dying of cancer and all. On a quiet Friday night, inspired by my recent encounter, I smoked a spliff in my room and made a start.
Bucket List
Have sex with a ridiculously hot girl.
Have sex with another ridiculously hot girl.
Have sex with another ridiculously hot girl.
Combine 1, 2 and 3 all at the same time. In the same bed.
Be serious, Simon. Plus, I barely have it in me to please one woman, let alone several of them. I started again.
Simon Bramwell's Bucket List
Have sex with a ridiculously hot girl.
It's my bucket list. I can keep one of them.
Make some new friends.
Steal something.
Visit Mum, Dad and Emma for a final time.
Have a fight.
Get a tattoo.
Tell my moronic Head-teacher what I actually think of him and his 'policies'.
Tell Dad the truth.
As soon as I wrote number 8, I regretted it. That was hardly a conversation I wanted to have. Still, if I was serious about this suicide stuff, it was a conversation I needed to have. I planned to leave this world with a clear conscience.
I spent most of Saturday morning and early afternoon pretending that I wasn't going to go. At 2:30pm, I had three options: drive my car, still emblazoned with the word 'Mutherfucker' (I couldn't be bothered, or afford, to get it fixed); get the tram, which was almost as abhorrent as catching a bus; or walk. In the interests of making sure I didn't arrive on time, I chose to walk. The way I saw it, when two individuals agreed to meet up, one would always end up waiting for the other. Since I didn't consider anyone else to be worth waiting for, I strived for a lack of punctuality at all times.
Lurking outside Café Diem waiting for April, who appeared to be running even later than I was, I gazed through the window at the perfect rows of miniature treats: thick, buttery cheesecake slices; individual tarts piled high with glassy fruits; pale pink mousses; and fat, cream-smothered Éclairs. At the circular tables inside sat perfect rows of young and attractive couples, sharing intimate secrets between sips of creamy coffee. I suddenly felt completely out of my depth. What did I know about this weird girl from the chip shop? Why had she chosen such a kitsch, vomit-inducing venue for our meeting? And what the hell was I hoping to get out of this situation anyway? Meaningless one-night stands didn't have a build up like this; if you did have coffee, you had it after sex, not before. But this couldn't be the start of a relationship either. I'd already decided it wouldn't be fair to ignite someone else's flame when I was planning on dousing my own out in a couple of months' time. Plus, 28 years of being single gave me the impression that female-combustion wasn't really my speciality.
Unsure of why I had even turned up, I spun 180 degrees and prepared to walk my cold feet straight back in the direction of home. That's when I saw her short figure heading straight towards me through the crowd of Saturday shoppers. Wisps of green hair glinted in the early spring sun and a bulky rainbow scarf covered most of her face. Her huge eyes smiled ecstatically and she waved her hand towards me in wide, clumsy motions. I counted that she was wearing at least six different colours. Aside from the rather hideous scarf, she wore a khaki green coat, a thick purple skirt that skimmed her knees, blue tights and what appeared to be a pair of dark brown hiking boots. She looked like she'd covered herself in glue and then rolled around inside a jumble sale. Ordinarily, I would have crossed the street to avoid someone exactly like her but my feet refused to co-operate. Shouting 'HELLO' far too loudly, she kissed me on the cheek and gestured for me to lead the way inside.
The coffee was bland but the conversation strangely interesting, which I hadn't grown to expect following my limited experience of dating. Having grown up in Sheffield, April had quite a strong Yorkshire accent; usually, I found that Northern accents made people sound stupid but she seemed to have a decent amount of knowledge under her belt. She grew up watching nature documentaries with her dad and found animals fascinating. She knew that humpback whales only eat during the summer months and that a certain type of male toad can become female when placed under the right conditions. Darren and Claire, her parents, owned Heart & Sole where I'd seen her working behind the counter. She had one sister called Hannah who was eight years older than her and worked in a care home for the elderly. For some bizarre reason, I found myself drinking in everything she said – and she had a lot to say. Words scrambled out of her mouth so quickly that it was difficult to switch off – or to get a word in myself for that matter.
'So, our Hannah's been workin' there now for about – oooh – it must be gettin' on for, like, 10 years or somethin'. Wow – it doesn't seem like that long. In't it funny how time flies? They say it flies when yer enjoyin' yerself, but I think it just flies all the bloody time! Mind you, I do think she enjoys her job – our Hannah, I mean. Me? I couldn't do it: wiping old men's bums and feedin' people mushed up baby food 'cause they can't do it themselves? Ewwww! I think I'd be sick, yer know. I really do. Do you reckon you could do it? Most people couldn't; that's what Hannah says. She says that most people are too selfish but that being selfish in't always a bad thing.'
She asked question after question but left literally zero space for me to answer. Were these rhetorical questions? Or did she want me to interrupt her in order to answer? I had no idea, so I chose to simply nod and go along with it. It was actually quite nice not to make any effort – quite uplifting. Other dates I'd been on were filled with awkward silences and huge, cavernous holes in conversation where we realised we had nothing in common. With April, there wasn't even enough time to think, let alone endure a period of silence.
'God, listen to me, rabbitin' on! Honestly, my mum reckons I could talk the hind legs off a donkey – whatever that means. I mean, what kind of sayin' is that? I could talk so much that an animal's back legs would literally detach from its body, drop off and leave the poor creature sliding around on the floor, all bloody and unable to walk? Honestly, where these sayings come from I'll never know. Anyway, Simon, why don't you tell me somethin' about yerself.'
'Well, I-'
'Ooooh, I know! Let's play a GAME! I'll ask you ten questions about yerself and you have to answer them. You have to answer with the complete truth. Ok?'
I think that question's rhetorical too.
'Right, question one: What was the name of yer first childhood pet?'
What a weird choice of first question; she doesn't even know my last name. 'Erm, my sister had a hamster called Scout when she was little but I never really had pets when I was growing up. Mum said she was allergic but I think she just disliked the mess.'
'Question two: Who is yer favourite celebrity?'
Right. Must pick someone who makes me sound cool but not in an I'm-trying-too-hard kind of way. 'Michael Fassbender, I guess. He's in some pretty decent films.'
'Question three: Would yer rather have a sandwich w' cheese on or w' tuna on?'
'Probably cheese.'
'Question four: If yer had to go blind or deaf, which one would yer choose?'
Where is she getting this shit from? 'Erm, deaf, I think. I reckon losing your sight would change your life more significantly.'
'Question five: Ant or Dec?'
'Ant or Dec what? What am I doing with Ant or Dec?'
'Don't think; just answer!' she shouted, grinning.
'Ok, err – Ant? I suppose he's funnier.'
'Question six: Sunshine or snow?'
'Snow.' At least snow sometimes means they shut the school.
'Question seven: Dark chocolate or white chocolate?'
'I actually prefer milk chocolate.'
'Good answer.'
'Thank you.' A reluctant smile spread across my face. Was I actually enjoying myself?
'I'm bored of this game now,' April announced suddenly.
'Oh, ok. No worries. I should probably be going now anyway,' I said, nodding towards the exit. 'I've, err, got a lot of stuff to do this evening.' Unless you counted eating dinner and masturbating myself to sleep 'a lot of stuff to do', that wasn't entirely true. Nevertheless, I didn't want to drag the date out until it exhausted itself. I reached for my wallet, unsure how she would react to my proposal of splitting the bill evenly.
'I'll get these!' she shouted, jumping up out of her seat.
Finally! A girl who doesn't expect a guy to treat her like bloody royalty. In an appreciative rather than perverted way, I snuck a quick glance at her behind as she sashayed away from our table. Very nice. A bit fatter than I'd usually go for but still very nice. Even if it was hiding underneath that hideous purple skirt. There it went, bobbing its way towards the counter. There it went, bobbing past the counter. There it went, bobbing out of the door and into the blustery street. Wait, where was she going? Maybe they didn't accept card payments – yes, it looked exactly like the kind of hoity-toity establishment that would refuse to accept the most modern method of payment over a decade into the 21st century. She'd probably just gone to get some cash out. I was impressed that she hadn't come back to ask me – maybe she was against chivalry too. When she came back, I'd ask for her number. Not because I wanted to see her again, but because it was polite. And perhaps I needed to spend my last few months on Earth being a bit more polite.
After ten minutes, I convinced myself that the nearest cash machine had broken. After twenty minutes, I wondered whether she'd been mugged. After thirty minutes, I swallowed my denial, paid the bill myself and left.
My mood hadn't improved by Monday morning; it darkened further when I was pulled into the Head's office to discuss an 'incident'. It had come to the attention of the shiny-headed twat that I had been driving into school in a vehicle 'inscribed with an offensive message'. Why couldn't these educational types speak in anything other than euphemisms? It drove me up the wall.
'Ah, yes. I assume you're referring to the misspelled 'motherfucker' scrawled across the two right-hand doors, John?'
His hamster cheeks grew warm and rosy; direct expression wasn't one of his beloved policies. In his opinion, a school was a business and should be run accordingly: with sterile, detached formality. He was a business manager who sat in his ivory tower and dictated his orders to his compliant minions. Thus, personal contact with his students or his staff was kept to an absolute minimum. Any more than minimal personal contact might lead him to discover the truth about his 'well-oiled machine': that his staff were overworked, underpaid and drained of all positive morale; and that his students were idle, malicious little knob-heads who deemed education to be about as important as learning the bowel movements of a toad. 'Indeed. Well, as I'm sure you can appreciate, this is completely unacceptable in an educational environment. And, please, call me Mr Harding.'
'It wasn't me who wrote it on there, John. Honestly.'
'Well,' he spluttered, 'I should hope not, Mr Bramwell. Regardless of who put it there, it must be removed immediately. Your vehicle is not to enter our school gates again until this has been done.'
I explained I couldn't really afford body work on my old Corsa and suggested that a pay-rise might help to resolve the issue, but old John was less than forthcoming and suggested that I book another appointment to see him with his P.A. on the way out. We could 'discuss any other matters then'. I knew what that meant. I also knew that Ruth, his P.A., was under strict instructions to ignore all requests from members of staff wanting appointments.
The next morning, I drove into the school gates at my usual time of 7:45am. By the time I reached my desk at 7:50, another e-mail had arrived from Ruth, requesting my presence in Mr Harding's office once again. Immediately. Apparently, crafting duct-tape carefully over the lines of each of the letters of the 'aforementioned word' was not an appropriate solution to the problem and, in fact, only managed to draw yet more attention the word itself. He didn't even notice that I'd corrected the original spelling mistake. Some people are so difficult to please.
