We know you've all been desperately waiting for One Seriously Messed-Up Week by Tom Clempson, so we thought we'd let you have a sneaky peek!
WARNING: this is a tad on the rude side, so please stop reading if you're a) under 12 or b) easily offended. Okay? Don't say we didn't warn you…
TO NOT READ THIS COULD SERIOUSLY DAMAGE YOUR HEALTH!
Seriously. The crap that I have written down on these pages is probably the most important stuff you will ever read in your life. Maybe not as important as ‘Danger 50,000 volts’ or ‘Trespassers will be shot’, but, in terms of importance for the well-being of your future existence, this is up there. Trust me.
I know it all sounds kind of melodramatic and like I’m up my own arse, but I can assure you that is not the case. I know this because someone once told me to ‘always write your introduction after you’ve finished – that way you know exactly what it is you are introducing’. So that’s what I’m doing right now. That is how I know that, by some fluke chance, whilst I was documenting one week of the monotony that is my life, something kind of unbelievable actually happened.
Now here I am, sat in the bed of a beautiful girl, and my face is beaten to a pulp. Despite first impressions I’m actually a gentle soul – mild-mannered, quiet and a bit of a hypochondriac. Not sure why I just told you that though, I’ve just ruined a bit of upcoming character development. But maybe I needed to write that in case you don’t actually continue reading. Maybe I need you to know the kind of person I am in case you put the book down right now. You can, you know. I don’t care. In fact I dare you not to read! I almost want you not to read any more. But I warn you once again – your future happiness hangs in the balance.
Seriously bad nob-ache.
I don’t actually have nob-ache right now, but, as an almost-sixteen-year-old boy, involuntary and unwelcome wang-ons take up about 78% of my waking (and un-waking, for that matter) life. Therefore, nob-aches are a large part of who I am and should not go unmentioned in a project entitled ‘Myself’. Especially as, when I was suffering from the aforementioned debilitating affliction about two hours ago, it occurred to me that to start a story with the word ‘nobache’ would be unbelievably cool.
‘I’ve got nob-ache’ is actually how I wanted to start it but, unfortunately, as I don’t presently have any such ache, I didn’t want to start this whole thing off with a lie, so I had to settle for the single home-made word ‘nob-ache’ and then go on to explain why, in these rambling and incoherent opening paragraphs. Not a great start, but it did allow me to use the word ‘nob-ache’ at least seven times, so it’s not all bad, I suppose.
Shit, the teacher’s talking to me, better pretend to be making notes . . .
The ‘teacher’ whose Science lesson I have been writing through is called Jane Monroe. She vaguely resembles a mole, in a cute kind of way, so obviously not especially attractive, but, given that she is only one of about three female teachers under the age of forty in our school, the general consensus amongst most of the male students here is that she’s ‘worth a go’ or that she’s a ‘five pinter’. Obviously most of the guys at my school are total dicks – not only are they all completely desperate for any form of sex with anybody other than their left hands, but I very much doubt that any of them would still be standing upright after five pints, and, if they were, their nobs certainly wouldn’t be. I think the term ‘five pinter’ should really be replaced by ‘I would do her in an instant as long as there was no chance of anyone ever finding out about it, and if they did find out then I would have to make up an elaborate excuse as to why I did it, like, “I didn’t know what I was doing! I’d had FIVE PINTS!”’
‘Yes?’ I reply to Five-pints-moley-face Monroe with a carefully balanced tone of innocence and deep interest and concentration.
Please don’t come and see what notes I’m making. Please, please, please . . . !!!
‘I said pens down,’ she says, eyebrows raised in an impotent gesture of sternness. She’s such a timid little thing that even when she shouts it’s kind of cute. I don’t want to give her a hard time though, so I guess the pen is going down and I’ll catch up with this later . . .
Well, there you go – ‘Sam’, that’s my name. I was kind of hoping to use a pseudonym, something cool and mysterious, but I guess it’s too late thanks to old Moley-face catching me off guard.
I’m in my English lesson now and although I’m not supposed to be doing my homework during the lesson I’m not going to feel too bad about it, considering the homework I’m doing is actually for this class. Another factor playing a part in the me-not-feeling-bad department is that we’re nearly fifteen minutes into the lesson and we are still waiting for our teacher, Dave Kross, to arrive. If this were any other class, with any other teacher, half the students would have seen this as an opportunity to take off.
But not this class. Dave Kross is without a doubt the coolest teacher who ever walked the earth and I don’t think I know a single person that doesn’t agree with me. (Considering he’s the one who’ll be marking this paper, maybe I’ll get a good grade for brown-nosing.) Seriously though, without wanting to sound too gushy and pathetic, he is a good guy. I don’t mean he’s ‘cool’ and ‘crazy’ and ‘down with the kids’ and likes to manipulate us, I mean he’s a genuine, down to earth bloke who makes us feel like friends rather than students. He even refuses to jump the queue in the canteen like all the other members of staff and instead lines up with all us kids – he’s a proper good guy. And also, seriously, I really DO want to get a good grade for this work. I know I sound like I don’t give a sh*t, what with my blatant lack of respect for decent grammar and wotnot, but here’s the thing – this exercise is categorised as ‘Creative Writing’, so that’s what I’m doing, I’m being creative with my own laziness! And if everything works out, then my creative laziness will get me good enough grades to get to film school, where I can make creatively lazy films for the whole world to see.
So there you go, I have inadvertently gone and given my main character (myself) motivation for this story – I need to get a good grade. Sh*t. Not only is that extremely obvious, it’s also a complete cliché! And here’s me trying to be original. I truly am a dick.
Anyway, here I am (a dick, as we have recently discovered), in Dave’s English lesson (our school is pretty laid back – we call the teachers by first names and we don’t wear uniforms), and so far I’m the only person with my book out. How much of a swot must I look? I’ve noticed a couple of people start to panic as they’ve seen me – head down, writing away furiously – and are clearly worried in case I’m working on some last-minute homework that they might have forgotten about.
‘Jack,’ says Cole, who’s sat beside me, shoving my arm, trying to get me to respond.
‘Jack!’ he barks, obviously unaware that I’m writing down everything he’s doing.
‘Jack, you twat!’
Cole’s a twat and he’s got no nob.
By the way, my name is Jack now. According to Hollywood it’s the coolest name available for a man. Have you noticed how about 70% of all action heroes in Hollywood are named Jack? I mean the characters, of course, not the actors, which is weird actually because thinking about it there are barely any actors named Jack . . . Nicholson, Palance . . . who else? (Hey, they were both in Batman . . . weird.)
Biology with Eleanor Wade
I’ve changed my mind. My motivation in this story is no longer to just get a good mark for writing it. My new motivation has a name and I call it ‘Eleanor Wade’.
There she is – Eleanor, Eleanor, Eleanor . . . Woof! Sat one row in front of me and one place to the left is the most perfect example of a female I have ever encountered. She actually makes me look forward to Biology. (This is where I turn to face the camera and whisper, ‘I wouldn’t mind doing a bit of Biology with her!’, sounding a little less cool and a little more creepy than intended.)
‘What the hell are you doing?’ Cole just asked. ‘Nothing,’ I lied.
‘What did you say about “doing a bit of Biology”?’
‘Shut up!’ I pleaded in whispers.
Clive Cornish may be a dim-witted, wiggy-haired Science teacher but he has the hearing of a spry kitten (kittens probably have good hearing, right?). Plus Clive Cornish is a short wiry thing with a lady’s voice and heavy nipples who likes to compensate for his femininities by hurling out detentions like they are sheep on Facebook – and I was never really into that whole ‘throw a sheep at someone’ thing. If he keeps us late we’ll end up with no afternoon break, and my bottom needs an afternoon break! Not for sh*ts, mind you, although I probably could do with one, but I’m talking about farts. My stomach is gurgling like I just drank a genuine grown-up coffee-shop coffee (does that happen to other people or is it just me?), but if I unleash the raging beast here it would be just my luck that everyone would get just enough of a whiff to make them feel sick and then Cole would take great pleasure in loudly blaming me, whether I was guilty or not.
‘What did you say about doing Biology?’ Cole repeated, whispering this time, which is just as obvious as shouting when he shuffles himself to within two inches of my ear.
I warningly motioned towards Clive Cornish with my head, eyes and eyebrows. (Does that motion have a name? You know, where you clench your teeth and raise your eyebrows in a ‘Not now!’ kind of way? It should do. It’s not really a glare and it’s not a nod. Lets call it a ‘glod’.) But subtlety is just not in Cole’s nature.
‘Were you talking to an imaginary camera again?’ he whispered with an eager grin, ignoring my intense glod. (I like it!)
‘Yes,’ I admitted unashamedly, hoping to shut him up and avoid an inevitably severe mocking.
‘You’re a bummer!’ he exclaimed, failing to keep his laughing outburst to a whisper. ‘I thought you were trying to quit.’
Oh Jesus, he’s going to crucify me. And he’s going to do it loud enough for Eleanor to hear.
‘Is it because you like kissing boys?’ he asked, unable to control his stupid snigger.
Here we go. Luckily by now I am familiar with the techniques required to placate the giggling moron. (Why am I friends with him?)
‘No, you idiot,’ I replied out the corner of my mouth, not looking up from my writing, ‘it’s because I like kissing old ladies’ bottoms.’ I deadpanned.
‘Cole?’ comes Clive Cornish’s nasal voice, bringing Cole to sudden silence. We’re done for! He heard us! Goodbye, play time. I mean break time! (Why do I still do that? It’s been five years. I haven’t had ‘play time’ since primary school!) Hang on . . . Clive’s face . . . the waiting . . . he’s not telling Cole off, he’s waiting for an answer to something. He must have asked a question! Is Cole smart enough to work this out? Please, Cole, do not say ‘Sorry’ – say anything, anything to do with Biology, say ‘Enzymes’, say ‘Photosynthesis’, but if you say ‘Sorry’ he’ll know you’re guilty, you’ll be signing your own death warrant . . .
I’m furiously writing all this down, pretending to be deep in my work. Cole has been silent for way too long. Everyone is beginning to turn and look. Speak, damn you, speak!
Wait . . . his mouth begins to open . . . he stutters . . . a word begins to form on his lips . . .
No . . . wait . . . Cornish is blushing! He stutters, too . . . he . . .
‘No, Cole,’ he mutters sheepishly, face bright red, ‘anyone else?’
A dozen sniggering hands shoot up into the air. ‘Yes . . . Eleanor.’
‘The Natural History Museum?’
‘Thank you. Yes, it is on display at the Natural History Museum in London.’
Must – keep – writing . . . anything to keep me from laughing.
- Week of Michelle Zink
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