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A teacher who would rather have some nice oak dowelling than a woman.
Residing in a technology department near you is Ernie. His non-sensical manner generates vast amounts of pupil-induced histerior, normally arising from the 23 hours of pure shit that comes out of his mouth every day. Ernie is well known in Waffling Circles, and has been crowned, apparently, Bullshit King of the United Kingdom.
Amongst all of stories that Ernie tells daily (he does tell most stories many times), I have yet to hear one that is at least vaguely interesting. Nestled in-between his sagas concerning the Swedish plumbing system and Russian transport normally resides the most boring subject of all- his life. Without provocation he will enter into a phase of reflection, followed by a good hour or so of him telling us how much he hates himself. He will give us a monologue of how many thousands of pounds he has lost through being a twat, how his mother threw out his dinky toys when he was fourteen, and how we should make something in Design and Technology as boring and mundane as a door or a paint pot. Oh, the excitement.
Complimenting Ernie's horific amount waffle is Ernie's horrific amount of comb-over. Being 50 something means that Ernie is going bald, and instead of admitting it like most men, Ernie has decided to attempt to cover it up with the most ridiculous hair style you could possibly see. Every time he coughs or splutters, his comb-over lifts up a little, revealing the bald scalp below. This is not helped by the faeces coloured knitted pullovers that he often wears- knitted, presumably, by himself.
Being such a waffler means that Ernie gives us little time to actually do any work. He still demands that it be completed though, and after talking for 50 minutes of a 1 hour lesson, he complains that the resulting design looks like a pile of dog mess (or his pullover for that matter). His punnishements for poor work range from cleaning the worktops to a full-blown expulsion. It has even been rumoured that one poor pupil had to trim Ernie's nasal hair, presumably after being caught impersonating the teacher by putting a paintbrush up his nose.
"Ahhhhhhh. What the fuck is that stuck to Ernie's pullover.... Oh, its alright its only some nasal clippings"
"Ernie's recorded waffle made it to the final of 'The Most Boring Man In Britain' competition"
"I'd rather listen to a recording of an angle grinder than listen to Ernie"
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A system that performs in a way similar to that of John Shuttlewood. It uses a fingerprint recognition system, similar to that used by many organisations, to identify participants in the rogering system. Often, this behaviour involves some kind of Wank Chariot.
'I'm just going to have some Biometric Rogering'
'There is no proof that a Biometric Rogering System was used in this operation'
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Just as Bill Oddie may like to observe his Wood Pecker oscillating in and out of a large hole from time to time, I like to view, from a distance at least, the segregated subgroup of desperate humanity that we like to call Chavs. As if you hadnât already guessed from my pessimistic drones, I dislike chavs with an unceasing hatred, but at times I find them utterly hilarious. When I can, I often watch the humble and increasingly prevalent migration of the Chavs to their local off-licence, where, with a few pence between them, they manage to rustle up about 10 gallons of finest Aldi own-brand cider, and this, with their vastly theatrical habits, beckons giant amounts of predominantly patronising hilarity.
Even funnier than watching a 13 year old chav trying to buy alcohol is watching a 13 year old chav trying to drink it. Yes, we've all had a couple of under-age beverages, but never to the extent of the Chav. Walking around Peterborough, for instance, at about 3 in the morning, you find yourself confusing the amassed collection of collapsed Chavs with street furniture. My friend, for example, thought that one young fellow was actually a bench, and sat on him. (What I was doing at Peterborough at 3 AM, I'm not entirely sure).
Finding a group of Chavs is easy; all you have to do is look in a park. Walk around, and you'll know you've found a chav when he pulls a knife on you and asks if you've got any nail varnish so he can get high off of it. A white tracksuit is a dead give-away, and you can always see them in the dark because of all of the glowing fags that hover about four-feet off the ground. Rest assured, chavs arenât actually damaging their lungs with these cigarettes, itâs just to make them look really, really cool. (Detect the sarcasm there?) Chavettes are easily identified because they will be wearing a lurid, metallic looking pink Puffa jacket, and will be wearing hooped earrings, that, I am reliably informed, âyou could hang a parrot onâ. Argos bling is also a dead-cert, however that âgoldâ chain is in reality off of an old motorbike, and theyâve tinted it using paint bought from the Early Learning Centre.
Listening to a chav conversation, I wonder how many words are actually in a Chav's vocabulary. "Fuck", we can presume, features heavily in it, as well as other hilariously patronising âexpletivesâ like "Cock", "Gay", and "Fuck-me-fuck-the-lot-o-ya!" (that, I am assured by a Chav I had the unluckiness of meeting in Peterborough, is actually a single word). Other words which Chavs use as much as these smirk inducing creations include "Mum", "Yur'mum", (which they somehow manage to transform into a single word), and "Innit", which unless you are talking about an old lady's purse, is the least likely place your going to find a male Chav.
Overall then, being a chav watcher is great. Being a Chav, however, isn't.
Its dâ fuckin trufe, innit!
I'm a chav watcher, not a bird watcher. That said, I occasionally like to watch birds.
Q.What do you call 16 chavs in a mini?
A.Innit
50👍 4👎
Just as Bill Oddie may like to observe his Wood Pecker oscillating in and out of a large hole from time to time, I like to view, from a distance at least, the segregated subgroup of desperate humanity that we like to call Chavs. As if you hadnât already guessed from my pessimistic drones, I dislike chavs with an unceasing hatred, but at times I find them utterly hilarious. When I can, I often watch the humble and increasingly prevalent migration of the Chavs to their local off-licence, where, with a few pence between them, they manage to rustle up about 10 gallons of finest Aldi own-brand cider, and this, with their vastly theatrical habits, beckons giant amounts of predominantly patronising hilarity.
Even funnier than watching a 13 year old chav trying to buy alcohol is watching a 13 year old chav trying to drink it. Yes, we've all had a couple of under-age beverages, but never to the extent of the Chav. Walking around Peterborough, for instance, at about 3 in the morning, you find yourself confusing the amassed collection of collapsed Chavs with street furniture. My friend, for example, thought that one young fellow was actually a bench, and sat on him. (What I was doing at Peterborough at 3 AM, I'm not entirely sure).
Finding a group of Chavs is easy; all you have to do is look in a park. Walk around, and you'll know you've found a chav when he pulls a knife on you and asks if you've got any nail varnish so he can get high off of it. A white tracksuit is a dead give-away, and you can always see them in the dark because of all of the glowing fags that hover about four-feet off the ground. Rest assured, chavs arenât actually damaging their lungs with these cigarettes, itâs just to make them look really, really cool. (Detect the sarcasm there?) Chavettes are easily identified because they will be wearing a lurid, metallic looking pink Puffa jacket, and will be wearing hooped earrings, that, I am reliably informed, âyou could hang a parrot onâ. Argos bling is also a dead-cert, however that âgoldâ chain is in reality off of an old motorbike, and theyâve tinted it using paint bought from the Early Learning Centre.
Listening to a chav conversation, I wonder how many words are actually in a Chav's vocabulary. "Fuck", we can presume, features heavily in it, as well as other hilariously patronising âexpletivesâ like "Cock", "Gay", and "Fuck-me-fuck-the-lot-o-ya!" (that, I am assured by a Chav I had the unluckiness of meeting in Peterborough, is actually a single word). Other words which Chavs use as much as these smirk inducing creations include "Mum", "Yur'mum", (which they somehow manage to transform into a single word), and "Innit", which unless you are talking about an old lady's purse, is the least likely place your going to find a male Chav.
Overall then, being a chav watcher is great. Being a Chav, however, isn't.
Its dâ fuckin trufe, innit!
I'm a chav watcher, not a bird watcher. That said, I occasionally like to look at birds.
Q.What do you call 16 chavs in a mini?
A.Innit
A popular nickname for a not-so-popular company.
Traversing their way around the nether-regions of the UK is Canal Coaches. Offering shite service is simply not enough for Canal's; shite value, shite busses and an appalling safety record combine to make Canal's one of the least-like companies in the history of Lincolnshire transport. Even more so than Microsoft, I believe.
Canal's vehicles, bought in 1969 and not serviced since, have become some-what of a laughing point. You don't actually have to see the company livery to recognise a Canal's vehicle, the plumes of black smoke, the door that won't shut and the squelling fan-belt give it away well before that.
To give you an impression of what a Canal's coach is like to ride on, just imagine sitting on the manifold of a full-reving 1950's diesel engine, while listening to Steps and trying to ignore the vomit stain that is caked to the back of the seat in front. Nice, I'm sure you'll agree.
Complimenting Canal's appalling busses are Canal's appalling drivers. Beauty is not important for a Canal's driver, since any mention of the words 'Canal's Coaches' are sure to distrupt any courting ritual. A sense of direction, or, for that matter, an ounce of intelligence, are not important, since the boss doesn't know himself what the word 'Contract' means.
Canal's not-so-impressive safety record is also laughable. The frequency of accidents is somewhat alarming, the odd wheel falling off during a journey is not uncommon, and neither is the fire-escape randomly opening as you are going down a motor-way. Telling the driver that their is oil pouring out of the back of his bus is pointless, since he won't do anything, and even if Canal's could afford some oil, they'd only pour it down the drain anyway.
"I rode on a bus owned by Canal Coaches last night- the driver fucked my wife and the bus seat ate my wallet"
"The roar of the engine was enormous- shame it was because the exhausht had fallen off"
"I'd like to purchase a ticket to Hell please"
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Nebby is an ancient teacher at my Lincolnshire School. He beholds mythical qualitites that, combined with his unusual lack of self-control, enable us -his pupils- to rip the gonads out of his unascertive and permanantly lenient nature. Nebby, a teacher of Religious Studies (I use the term 'teacher' very loosely), surely must be deserving of an age named after him, and from 2006 onwards, I pronounce it 'Age of the Neb'(must be better than the Space Age or whatever one we're in now)
Nebby is a teacher who shows no discipline, and in no way at all, practises what he preaches. His favourtite sayings include 'Gordon Bennet', 'Your Going On Call', and despite being a teacher of religon 'Jesus Christ! God help me with these Bastards!!!!'. These lines have become so legendary, that they have been made part of the innaugeral 'Nebby Song', performed by the equally legendary Pear Tree Farms.
Nebby is also deserving of his own verb, 'To do a Nebby' or 'to complete a Neb movement' (Normally flailing your arms around in the rough direction of the deputy headmaster's office)To have a 'Nebby shower' means that you sit on the front row of class and get soaked by his extravagant oral juices while talking, seemingly to no-one, about The Rt. Reverend Desmond Tutu.
In one way or another, Nebby said, God must be greater than the power vested in my little finger. Being of a religion brings us one step closer to God, and ultimately one step closer to heaven, hell and terrorism.
I had a Nebby shower yesterday; It was delicious
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The RSPB may be complaining about the increasing lack of native British thorna, but they have failed to take into account, as far as I am aware, the uprise in the number of Sex Kestrels roaming the skys and industrial wastelands of the United Kingdom.
The humble Sex Kestrel seeks out its prey in the most immoral and humiliating places, leading, in many cases, to the hunted being thoroughly humiliated with his, or her, trousers down. Often, the prey is engaging in a little domestic rogering, either on their own or as part of a large social gathering, consisting of one laptop computer, Google images, and other industrial strength activities.
The Sex Kestrel swoops with unrivalled accuracy, and with the greatest degree of care, it carries out its lawful acts. Hovering over and around the Rogers, it successfully humiliates them and reveals their antics to the wider population, causing discust within the community, anger within the elderely and erections within the gay bars.
Lest we forget though, the Sex Kestrel is a powerful weapon in the war against rogering. Rogering is a sin, and as such, the perpetrators should be punished using all measures that are deemed nessecary.
All hail the Sex Kestrel!
The Sex Kestrel swooped on the latest informal, but rather damp, group of young Rogers involved in the art of Arse Warbling. May its phychotic vocal ramblings me a measure of awefullness forever and a day.
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