Friday, November 04, 2005

Six Of The Best

This is such a shameful indulgence. I won't be hurt if this entertains no-one. I had fun doing it.

Miss Spangler: Six feet tall, strident, twin-set and pearled, frizzy-haired, ex nun. Arch disciplinarian deputy head and scourge of the girls, (the boys didn't seem to interest her much.) She would march the corridors purposefully in search of prim, well behaved girls but would only find clusters of boy crazy strumpets with the dress sense of street floozies and the morals of trollops.

One of her tricks, once bawling out any of these little slatterns for wearing make up or displaying tawdry jewellery, was to get them to bend over, sometimes in full view of the boys, to establish whether they were wearing regulation chunky serge knickers or flouting the rules by going frilly or lacy. Those too scantily clad were sent home in disgrace. None of the boys dreamed of seeing Miss Spangler scantily clad.

Miss Shatcoot: Bespectacled and shrewish. Hair tied into a severe - don't fuck with me - bun. Taught art, bad temperedly. Seemed to consider all boys to be hormonally challenged, sex-crazed, toilet-humour obsessives. Never one for the social niceties of gentle persuasion and sympathetic understanding, Miss Shatcoot was once seen to side swipe a rowdy mischief-boy so hard across the neck, a palpable silence and a hundred bladder urges descended within a radius of fifty feet. Soon after, rumours of her madness rippled through the school.

Mr. Butterbaugh: Rasping-voiced, Harry Worth double. Looked more bank manager than geography teacher. Calm exterior belied a simmering rage. A rare though cruel exponent of the slipper to the rear end as a form of punishment. Not content with reducing miscreant boys to tears of pain with a slipper seared backside courtesy of a run up to contact method, if he felt the misbehaviour serious enough, he would apply a spiteful 'head under the table' technique which guaranteed a double whammy and soreness at both ends.

Mr. Brimblecombe: Deranged, boggle-eyed music maestro. Would glower from the seat of his beloved Kemble upright if hymns weren't sung passionately or glockenspiels tinkled with enough enthusiasm.

Brimbles had his own cherished hoard of warn and wrecked plimsolls which sat amid the sheet music and the tambourines of his music cupboard. The existence of these whacking shoes - some of which were accorded musically inspired names like Beethoven, Brahms and (Burt) Baccarat, forced us to feign at least some interest. When it waned in any of us, Mr. Brimblecombe would select whichever weapon represented the composer or musician that was occupying his long, dark, lonely bachelor nights at that particular time, and smash it against our rears with a strength, testament to a life time's double-bass hefting.

Mr. Snook: Diminutive, slyly tactile, badly wigged, failed stately-home head gardener. Taught rural science whilst wearing brown cords, green cardigans, checked shirts and rust brown knitted ties. Seemingly angry at his restrictive growth he would sometimes bully the boys who were taller than him whilst adopting a spooky chumminess to some of the less tall. Awkward around the girls, was never happier than when in the school garden demonstrating the 'trench' digging technique to the boys. Brutal slipper wielder when crossed; all that pent up frustration combined with an outdoorsman’s muscle tone made him a formidable adversary.

Mr. Squarebridges: Foul tempered, ancient looking, partly deaf, metalwork teacher. With his unruly white hair, calloused hands and stubborn attachment to his gas bottles, lump hammers and shrieking files, he could have been a panel-beater or factory welder. A battered tie and frayed collared shirt could sometimes be glimpsed behind his sulphur and burnt metal reeking overalls; half-hearted concessions to his teaching profession. Always to be found lurking in the Hades of the filthy metal workshop, Mr Squarebridges was never seen to leave his natural habitat, his comfort zone of forges, flames, filings and f words.

Not an exponent of the ubiquitous slipper or plimsol. Preferred the flexibility and convenience of the metal ruler to provide a whippy and stingy corrective. Failing that any mischief around the white hot forge - the only thing there hotter than his temper - would result in him throwing things, anything, whatever was at hand: screwdrivers, lumps of metal, anvils.

Names have been changed to protect the innocent. Though completely innocent they weren't

I like this idea - I may have to do my own at some time in the future:-)
And how long did you attend the Charles Dickens Memorial School for Descriptive Names? We had to make do with Mr Smith, Miss Jones and, at a push, Mr Hargreaves.
I hope someday I don't make someone's list! LOL

Michele sent me.
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
greetings, michelle sne tme to you this morning! it appears you went to what i think is called a public school where you are? i went to a catholic school for a while, its been more than 20 years but i still bear the faint scars on my hands from the metal edges of the rulers that sister mary edward used to whack us all with. nuns are evil.
Sounds like an austere and horrible school - perhaps you are entitled to some sort of compensation for the emotional turmoil you went through.

Hope there was a teacher slipper amnesty in more enlightened times.
Mrs A: Fill your boots it'll be the first time I've been first to do anything.

WTT: I wrote this with Bleak House on in the background. Don't think I fell under an influence do you?

Spare your pity Betty, I'm a notorious exaggerator. It's all true but, you know, I doubt anyone else would remember it in quite the same way.
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