Wednesday, 25 January 2006
the belles de jour of st. trinians
Class 4B, rude, violent and high on homegrown sensimila, deny stnaderds fo ecudation is slipping....
I'm just about to dismiss 4B - a frightful bunch of monsters they are (and so overpriced!) - when Miss Pelling pokes her head around the door and starts hissing and making throat-cutting gestures like some sort of Samurai mongoloid. I dodge a blackboard eraser hurled in my general direction from the back row and squeeze myself out into the corridor where Miss P. is still jabbering and gesticulating like an overworked Parisan traffic cop. "Oh Jerry, do something," she yabbers, forgetting that my name is actually Cyril into the bargain. "The School Inspector's due this afternoon and Miss von Teese has asked me to second you to green house duty with me. 3C's sensimila crop needs to be destroyed before the Ministry get here. If we don't get it on a bonfire immediately, they'll be back off to Whitehall having lifted a briefcase full of top drawer skunk with a five-figure street value and we'll be left with nothing to finish cindering the school running track..." She drops to her knees and grabs at my knee caps. "Look Audrey," I moan, forgetting that her name is actually Cyril into the bargain, "this is no time for you to start fellating me. Quickly, fetch me one of the second form. You know how I prefer to feel the delicate blush of young lips." And with that, she's off with her drawers around her ankles waving her hockey stick around like a crack-addled primate.
"Mr. Cook, we're a little concerned about Jemima...."
Before I can disentangle myself from the awful dog's dinner Miss P. has made of my private parts, I hear the familiar creaking noises and Miss von Teese's shrill and heartless laughter emanating from the headmistress' study. Poor old Roger, I think. Sent out by Granada to film a Cook Report on falling standards in Education, the poor blighter thought it'd be a quick in and out job and back home for tea. Here he is, thirteen months later, chained to a vaulting horse with a nubile burlesque artiste disguised as the headmistress of a school for virtuous young ladies using him to buff her nubbin for her own self-gratification for hours on end - only freeing him for long enough to perform the most basic of ablutions before subjecting him to another marathon of degrading sexual role play involving a large rubber spanner. Still, I suppose it's better than Crimewatch....
Lovable chanteuse and songwriting legend Kirsty Macoll brandishes a large rubber spanner shortly before her untimely death.
As I'm hurtling past the Headmistress' study in hot pursuit of Miss P., the study door opens and out crawls a crumpled and bedraggled figure covered in lipstick traces, with torn clothing and hideous bruises concurrent with a slow tweaking using a highly frictional adjustable implement. "Ah, Cyril!", I say, forgetting that Miss von Teese's name is actually Dita into the bargain. "Lovely day for it, what?" I venture, quickly sidestepping the outsretched cosh with which she is attempting to attract my attention. "The School Inspectors have arrived, would you like me to send them up?" "Satirise them as much as you like", Miss von M. slurred in impeccable German, "just make sure there's one in my office by sunset." And with that, she retired to her study and the old school halls thrilled to the sound of hot spatula on soft flesh of Television journalist.
The spatula from Hell: Artists impression of Miss von Teese as she prepares for a roasting...
Love on y'all,
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