Aaron Connor (3 page)

My form was right at the front
of the hall. I sat next to Bert, who was probably the smuggest
person I’ve ever met. He was quite fat, had the face of a hamster
and had blonde hair made into a crew cut. He always smelt of cheese
and onion crisps and was always talking about some book he’s going
to write but has never started. I have no doubt that he was going
to go far academically. I wished I had the ability to learn like he
does. Some blokes are luckier then others I suppose. Bert didn’t
talk to me. I knew he wouldn’t. He just shuffled away from me to
talk to his other clever clog friends.

To the other side of me was a
girl named Louise. Louise was stunning and looked just like that
singer Katy Perry. Of course, like most pretty girls, she was not
interested in me. She was more interested in handsome lads with no
personality and who treated the girls as no more then sex
objects.

I still don’t understand that.
After all the lovely, kind, considerate and caring blokes that come
their way, girls still always go for the dickhead. Why is that? Why
do they always go for someone who tries to tear their bras off in
front of everyone at parties? Why do they go for the one who’ll
keep on sleeping around without telling them? Why are all the nice
guys in the world left lonely while all the undeserving sods get
all the love and attention? I don’t understand it and I doubt I
ever will.

The sounds from everyone
talking were tremendous. The noise echoed across the entire hall
like we were inside a church. Mr Bertgill was standing before the
hall, looking furious that the students hadn’t stopped talking
after seeing him standing there. I could see that famous thick, red
vein begin to pulse on his forehead. He looked like he was going to
explode from the pressure.

“
SHUT UP!!!!!”
he screamed, “SHUT YOUR GOBS!!”

The room suddenly fell silent.
All faces were pointing towards the nasty old headmaster. He looked
down at us all through his thick glasses. I could see his hair was
thinning dramatically, most probably due to stress. If he keeps
getting angry like that, his head will be as bald as Matt
Lucas.

Once he was happy that everyone
had his attention, he took in a deep breath and began to talk as if
the outburst had never happened. Teachers are good at that.

“
Now, this has
been a very eventful year” Bertgill began, “Our charity event for
the local children’s hospital has raised over £70. We have seen one
of our own Miss Blakely prosper in London’s West End in the hit
musical “Who Gives a Rat’s Arse?” And we even saw our Ian Rangers
win the county football cup, for the first time in several years.
We have all noticed your test scores go flying above the average
margin, which has overfilled us with joy!”

Even when he said the last line
he showed no change of emotion on his face. His expression was
stone cold for the entire speech and he spoke in a monotoned drone,
which seemed to have the ability to drain the energy from the
listener. He droned on and on with empty compliments about
students, who themselves looked uncomfortable with what the old man
was saying about them.

“
Now we are to
be entertained” said the Head Master, with a slight air of sarcasm,
“by the school’s popular rock band M.P.N.T”

There was a huge cheer from the
audience. It was so loud it made me jump in my seat. I looked back
and saw some girls wearing tank tops two sizes too small, so that
their underdeveloped breasts would look bigger. On the tank tops,
written in felt tip pens, were the words: “we love you M.P.N.T!” .
. . sad init?

The curtains opened and there
was the band, in all their drippy, greasy haired glory. They all
wore lumberjack shirts in different colours as well as
uncomfortable looking tight skinny jeans. The girls in the audience
went mad. You know I was talking about those nasty boys that girls
always fancied, that was them standing on the stage.

The spotty faced singer stood
before the microphone wearing round sunglasses, in an embarrassing
attempt to be like John Lennon. He blew a kiss out to the girls who
cried even louder. I sat there in the chair cringing at the whole
thing. It was like I’d taken a wrong turn and found myself in the
audience of a Justin Bieber concert.

“
Ello’ girls!”
said the lead singer,

“
I LOVE YOU
ALAN!” screamed a girl in the audience,

“
I love you
too” Alan replied, blowing the girl a kiss, “this is our first
song, it’s called Shoes You So Stinky”

What came next, from the
amplifiers, were these drippy sods trying to create music. They
were failing tremendously. The vocals sounded like Bob Geldolf with
constipation. The guitar was out of tune as well as the bass. The
drummer wasn’t drumming as much as he looked like he was having a
seizure. I looked around the hall to see students and teachers
alike clapping and cheering along to the badly written song.

I caught Lizzie’s eyesight
across the room in-between other people’s heads. She looked just as
disgusted as I felt. I returned the look. She mouthed something to
me silently and slowly:

“
THIS – IS –
SHIT!”

“
I – KNOW” I
replied with a smile.

I and Lizzie then found it hard
to not laugh, as the so-called band played on.

Suddenly, with furious force,
the singer ripped the microphone from the stand as the song built
to the chorus. I remember seeing that and thinking: oh bloody hell,
it’s all happening now! At this point the singer climbed up onto
the bass drum and stood there singing the song. I didn’t believe in
god. Nevertheless, that didn’t stop me praying for that stuck up
prick to tumble off the drum and fall on his arse. How I wanted him
to stumble and rip those daft jeans in the process.

I don’t like to judge people
based on their looks, as people do it to me all of the time. I was
disgusted by the way these people acted. Their look is only
secondary to why I don’t like them. For instance, the Hardcore
Metal blokes with their piercings, tattoos and freighting clothes,
were in fact the nicest guys I’ve ever met. You can have a pretty
nice chat with Metal guys, they’re brilliant.

The “Indie” as they liked to be
called are varied. They sing like they’re from London, which alone
is annoying, and they all think their going to be the next Oasis or
something. Its fine for blokes to have dreams, I an’t saying
anything about that, but don’t go around saying “I’ll be this” and
“I’ll be that” because you don’t know how that dream will pan out.
What if you don’t make it and your left working at the local paper
shop, who’s going to look like right a pleb then?

Thankfully the band played
their last chord to a standing ovation. Everyone stood and clapped
and whooped, everyone except for me. I remained in my seat and
stared around me in confusion. It was then that I realised just how
much I didn’t understand the world around me. It wasn’t that I was
being cynical about everything, everything just seemed like shit to
me.

The band walked off with their
skinny spider like legs, until they were finally off stage for
good. Mr Bertgill reappeared and was clapping unenthusiastically.
One thing that I and the Head Master had in common is that we both
knew bad music when we heard it.

“
Thank you
boys” he said without any emotion, “now I shall like to talk to you
for a few more minutes now about your careers ahead”

I sat in my chair and felt
horrible. I felt so depressed and useless as the Head Master told
the school of possible job opportunities that I’d never get the
chance to try out for. That got me thinking. A thought came to mind
that made me feel very differently about the whole affair.

Maybe I wasn’t meant to go down
the ordinary route. Maybe I was meant for something better. Who
wants to get a job, have a family and die with no creative
excitement along the side? That’s boring. I love drawing graffiti.
It’s my passion. It is the one thing that keeps me going, in a
mundane world of limited opportunity for the creative soul. Was I
bound for something else? Something more exciting? If the answer is
yes, then how do I get there? Where do I go? What’s the next step
to get there?

I tried to not have too many
thoughts of grandeur. Like I said, there’s no point in thinking
about dreams when they’re still to be accomplished. Reason being is
that it saves disappointment if it doesn’t happen. Besides, the
journey to the goal is far more exciting and surprising then the
goal itself. The more the journey is a struggle and the harder it
is; the sweeter it will be then you finally arrive at the finishing
line. I bet you, whatever your dream may be, when you finally get
there you’ll miss the struggle of getting there, as that’s the fun
part.

As these thoughts ran through
my mind, I felt a soft rubber ball hit my head. At the school store
people could buy these balls, which were about the size of an
orange, for 20p. These hollowed balls were seen all over school as
these were the only balls allowed on site. This was because these
super light balls wouldn’t smash windows when the balls hit them. I
turned around to see who threw the ball at me. My eyes finally fell
upon Simon Grant with his mate Forrest, who were both laughing like
hyenas. I wasn’t at all surprised by this.

Simon Grant was the classic
bully, the thug, the arsehole. In fact, he’s the only person I know
that actually fits the stereotype of the “Chav” made by B.E.N. He
always wore the same sweaty and unwashed black and gold tracksuit.
He wore luminous green running trainers and the same black cap. His
teeth were crooked, his face was covered in spots and he stank of
vomit and cheep cider. His nose was broken in several places, he
was always starting on someone and making a complete arse of
himself. All in all he was a nasty git. The nastiest I reckon in
the whole school. No one dared mess with Simon Grant and his gang,
no one. Even everyone in the Town was scared of him.

Forrest who sat next to him
wore an identical black hoodie and looked just as repulsive as his
master. He had bright yellow teeth, tiny black eyes and a face like
a potato. He had shaved a lot of his hair and died it bright green.
The shape of his head and that green hair on top made him look like
a human turnip. Forrest had several ASBOs which he bragged about as
medals of honour. These included two arsons, three thefts, five
punch ups and one hit and run. Blimey he was an ugly sod. Yet he
had a seriously fit girlfriend. Girls, is this seriously the man of
your dreams? Really?!

Simon was the leader of a gang
of youths, all of whom wore identical black tracksuits. They’d pass
the time setting fire to things, stealing, drinking in empty car
parks, smoking weed and scaring the hell out of old people by
jumping out of the bushes when they come by. It’s odd how guys like
them figure out ways to entertain themselves. Simon and his gang
even made little games for themselves. One of the games was when
they’d go from pub to pub and see who could steal the most ashtrays
without being caught. It takes all sorts I suppose.

Of all the people who hated me
at St.Ians School, Simon hated me the most. He wanted me in his
gang you see, but I didn’t want any part of it. He called me a
soppy mother’s boy and tried to ruin my favourite white tracksuit
by throwing food at me. He keeps trying to get me to join but each
time he did so I turned him down. Every time I turned him down, the
more angry he’d become.

If this is being read out in
class by a Teacher, who’s going on about the symbolic metaphor
between the colours of our tracksuits, tell them to stop! No
really, stop it right now! Black for darkness and white for purity,
I’m right aren’t I? That’s what they’re saying, init? You Teachers
have ruined some of the best books ever written by doing that, so
stop it right now.

Anyway, that’s why it was no
surprise to me when it turned out to be Simon who threw the ball. I
turned away, faced the front and tried to ignore him. Then I felt a
paper airplane fall into my hood. Then next came some spit wads.
Then rubber bands swacked my face. I stayed still the entire time.
I’ve learnt, over the many years I have been in contact with Simon,
to not react in anyway to stuff like this. Reactions are what they
want. If you don’t react they’ll get bored and eventually stop.
They did stop, thankfully, and I was then again left with Mr
Bertgill droning on about nothing of any importance.

“
To close this
year’s assembly” said Mr Bertgill, finally finishing his cringe
worthy speech, “we are to be presented with this year’s GCSE drama
exam piece. I now pass you over to Mr Derry.”

Mr Derry came out in his tweed
jacket, waistcoat and trousers. The sound of his brown brogues
clacked loudly on the wooden stage. Mr Derry was an extraordinary
character. He was tall, his face was broad and covered in warts.
His hair was grey and thinning. When he spoke he sounded like a
mixture between Stephen Fry and Simon Callow.

Mr Derry was famed around
school for his dry witty humour. He actually was quite funny. Not
Mock the Week funny, more Carry On funny. The Drama Teacher wrote
the school pantomime every year and it was always a cracker. He was
a great fan of puns and word play, classic old school comedy. I
still don’t know how a man could store so many jokes in the same
head. It seemed he had millions of these jokes in there, ready to
whip out when the opportunity came about. It came as no surprise
when Mr Derry walked to centre stage and began his speech with one
of these jokes.

“
Before John
Campbell invented lubricating oil” he began with a sly smile, “he
was just squeaking by!”