Well, well, well Diary, this week has been eventful. I was having a perfectly blissful, Tyskie-fuelled evening with two of my less irritating friends (and a flaxen-haired drop-out I used to fancy, but shhh) in the pub on Saturday, when my phone buzzed, rattling fiercely against the bottle of £2.99 white I’d stashed in my bag.
Who was it? It was gay Charles! What the fuck do you want, gay Charles? Ever since I sort-of pissed myself last week, even my closest friends have been avoiding me. We've barely even talked before. So what's up?
I clumsily fumbled with my pass-code, read the text and let the impending academic shit-storm sucker-punch me full in the face. Our fucking English Lit teacher had only gone and done a Britney; flipping out, quitting her day-job and shaving off all her hair. Urgh, come on Miss. Do you have any idea how cruel it is for you to quit (with immediate effect) a month before we sit our exams? Did you really hate over-hearing about the class’s collective sexcapades so much that you abandoned us, your young cubs?
Obviously gay Charles has taken it worse than me. He's got crazy-pushy parents who made him sit Grade 4 tuba before he could even handle sarcasm properly (poor thing), so I imagine that, in his mind, the only alternative to passing with flying colours is to go flying off the nearest bridge.
In an attempt to claw our chances of passing A2 English back, Charles and I have agreed to meet over a bag of pear-drops in the canteen tomorrow, to plot and scheme. I'm going to propose that if Mrs Bennett doesn’t cough up a new English teacher within a week, I’ll bribe Brett to hack the school computer system (again), and we’ll organise a common-room food fight that’ll make last year’s infamous Pot Noodle Massacre look genteel and tame. (I still shudder whenever I think about the PNM; no-one deserves to get scalding hot Bombay Bad Boy on their pristine-white boat shorts, do they? Poor Jake.)
Mrs Earl, our other English teacher, is secretly jubilant about all of this drama. Don't try and hide your mirth behind that burnt filter coffee breath, Miss, I can see it in your eyes, your tiny, glittering, treacherous eyes – word on the street is that the school are going to employ a handsome, knowledgeable, male teacher.
How exciting is that?! The only male teacher I’ve had in 6th form so far is Mr Brown, our hopelessly incompetent History teacher. He's basically the guy from Human Centipede 2 but with the power to dish out detentions. Hardly a scholarly dream-boat.
Becoming my English teacher’s concubine would definitely dispel all my feelings of sexual inadequacy (I am still the only person in my year without their tits on Instagram; I need to move with the times). Fuck you, Penel; I don’t need rides in your poxy pussy-wagon, my teacher will drive me to KFC and snog me over chips on the hard shoulder. Plus, I’ve read Notes On A Scandal and Lolita, so I know all about keeping an illegal and potentially life-ruining relationship on the down-low, right?
Hello, sex with a grown-up man. Goodbye, childhood. I won't miss you, not even a bit.