Sunday, 26 January 2014

Hot Teachers

When you spend the duration of puberty at an all boy’s school, an attractive teacher feels like a lifebuoy descending from a helicopter to pluck you from a tumultuous sea of dicks. It would also turn every single pupil within a twenty foot radius into a blundering idiot. A school comprised entirely of sexually frustrated teenage males was hardly the ideal environment to hone romantic ability and, these alluring teachers being our only chance to practice, attempts to work our magic tended to go altogether poorly.

Sting knows what I'm talking about.

The teacher that engorged our imaginations the most was unwisely assigned to orchestrate Biology just as the textbook arrived at sexual education. She was young and in possession of generous mammalian protuberances that resulted in the frequent hiding of swollen laps. The entire class would engage in daring flirtatious games such as pushing our pens off the table when she was nearby and jockeying for view, or calling her over to assist us in our work and sliding our hands across the desk as she leaned over it, in the hope of making tantalising contact. It was a true game of chicken, complete with breasts.

The Biology lessons were sometimes mind-bogglingly graphic, including a video of a grotesquely hairy TV scientist depositing his man batter in extreme close up. It was almost enough to put us off the idea entirely. Almost.

‘Miss,’ said a boy who sat behind us, enthusiastically waving his hand in the air. ‘What does semen taste like?’

He was removed from the class. It seemed to be a tipping point. A few weeks later, due to what I can only assume was pent up thwarted desire, we made her cry by throwing balls of paper at her head and then locking her out of the classroom when she went in search of help. My few break-ups since have barely been more mature.

Then there was the geography teacher who, rumour had it, once had her skirt blown up in the playground by an errant gust of wind to reveal she was without underwear. Whenever she was on lunch duty a small cluster of boys perpetually lingered nearby, just in case.

An attractive French teacher, no doubt proudly exercising her English, admonished a boy for chewing gum by loudly insisting that he ‘stop masticating at the back of the room.’ For a long uproarious moment we all feared she’d somehow climbed inside our collective mind.

A special shout-out must go to the seemingly plain teacher who upset our reality by arriving on owns-clothes day in school uniform so mouth-watering to our teenage selves that we spent the entire day clustered outside her office, engaged in a game of verbal brinkmanship describing the things we’d do to her given the chance (the reality of course being shaking with terror and making a mess of our underpants).

I'd like to say it gets easier when you're older, but...

Attractive teachers were such things as dreams we made on. Whereas the idea of a male teacher acting on fawning schoolgirls was repugnant, the reverse seemed the most exquisite fantasy. We imagined how events would conspire in our favour, where we’d go to commit the deed, how we’d live in pubescent infamy. It was unflinchingly pathetic and shamefully misogynistic, and yet, in the dark ages before easily accessed internet pornography, a vital part of our stymied sexual development.

People are frequently shocked when I reveal I attended an all boys school, though with some thought I’m sure it makes sense to those who have ever seen me try to talk to a woman. It is a worthy scapegoat for my many years since of romantic indecency. Here’s to you, hot teachers.

Friday, 24 January 2014


Well, 2014 hasn’t got off to a flying start.

The current state of my depression reminds me of that period in the WWE when the Hardcore Title was in constant contention, anywhere, anytime. The holder would walk around with a constant lingering awareness of their impending downfall until the Holly family would jump out of a skip and beat them half to death with a plank of wood.

You monsters.

In real terms, this has recently manifested itself as sudden bouts of crying on train journeys. A trapdoor opens and my mood drops so rapidly I can hardly breathe. There is no discernible reason for it. There is no depression championship to take from me. If there were, I would willingly surrender it.

I am entrenched in the deepest rut of my life. I start this year jobless, single, living at home, and carrying about a stone of Christmas weight which is inexplicably not being shifted by sitting around and eating cake.

You could say the only way is up. If S Club 7 taught me anything it’s that I should reach for the stars. But it feels impossible to improve my life without getting a job. In the last year and a bit I’ve applied for over 300 jobs. That has netted me 3 interviews, all of which have resulted in failure.

Last week I interviewed for an exciting job. It was something I would love to do, and for once I was very qualified to do it. I bought a new set of interview clothes (based entirely on Jim Halpert from The US Office), spent a couple of days researching and preparing, and put every drop of energy I had during the interview into pretending that I don’t hate myself. I didn’t get the job.

Fuck you, S Club 7!

It feels like if I could get a job I would be able to move out again, afford to go and do the occasional fun thing, meet new people and make friends to do this with, maybe meet a girl. Unbelievably, girls aren’t terribly keen on unemployed 26 year olds who live with their mother. Most importantly, I wouldn’t feel so utterly worthless. I know that this is mostly wishful thinking. A job is not going to cure my depression. Nothing will. But it might be the gateway to improving my life. It has to be better than spending every day in my bedroom singing Van Der Graaf Generator songs to the cat.

The cat really hates Van Der Graaf Generator

It’s difficult to live in the total absence of hope. I feel like I’m falling apart, and I don’t know how to stop it.

I’d like to try and end this depressive ramble on a more positive note. I often feel very lonely. When I write things like this the majority of people choose to ignore it. I understand it’s not nice to read, and many will think I’m a moaner who should simply cheer up. But despite the silence that greets things like this, I have noticed a few people making indirect efforts to be supportive. I appreciate it greatly.

And to the handful of people who have been willing to talk to me directly about these things, particularly to those who just take the time to check that I’m okay, I thank you from the bottom of my shrivelled heart. It means the world.