I recently completed my atrociously long tenure at Worthing High School, and as such, I think it's time for a fair and balanced assessment of the establishment in question; or, more accurately, a rant involving some unnecessarily offensive jokes.

I don't know what I was expecting from high school. I think High School Musical is to blame for giving many kids misconceptions about how high school is going to turn out. No one starts singing jaunty pop songs as they're queuing up for the canteen; they'd be punched in the face for acting like a twat. High School Musical is a complete misrepresentation of reality. If I'd directed it, I would've made it like a real American high school: Gabriella would take some cocaine at a party and give a stranger a blowjob, and Troy would consequently become depressed, drink himself into a stupor on his stepdad's vodka cache, and go to school and murder his classmates with a hunting rifle before blowing his own brains out in the gymnasium.

It was nice to finally have a Valentine's Day where I didn't sit alone in my room, brooding about the misery of life while masturbating furiously like a gorilla with ADHD.When I enrolled, the first thing that hit me about the school was the smell: the unmistakable smell of slags. Indeed, the school was infested with slags, sluts and whores of every description, whose sexual services could be acquired for no more than a pair of roll-ups and a bottle of cider. There were girls whose vaginae (the wonderful plural of "vagina" there) had seen so much use that they contained graffiti. These battered caves of sexual pleasure, swarming with STDs, had been so enlarged by constant penetration that they could double as dog kennels—or even better, sleeping bags, for whatever poor fellow had the misfortune of inserting his penis into these dank holes of wonder. They were very skanky slags, as well—the sort of girls who'd consider a Mars Bar wrapper to be an effective contraceptive device…. Actually, that sounds more like some kind of nymphomaniac MacGyver—the sort of guy who could make a coil device out of a bent-up paperclip and a pen lid….

Finding friends proved difficult, as the school was a festering den of retardation. There was Alex, the kind of kid who still thinks that girls have cooties and that a clitoris is a type of fruit. There was also Joe, a kid with a fascination for anal fisting. Yeah, you read that correctly. Apparently, the trick is to lubricate the fist and insert with a single, swift movement, though I still don't get how it would work… it would look like someone trying to swallow a boxing glove. I like the idea of him getting with a girl for the first time: she expects him to put on a condom, and he instead starts strapping on a rubber glove. I'd give her two weeks at the very most before the diameter of her anus had expanded to the point where it looked like a second mouth.

But before you think that my school is completely made up of freaks, I should probably mention a certain "local legend" student—an undeniably incredible superhero known as Stevie T—an idol and inspirational figure for every young man. He looks like a werewolf and speaks as if his esophagus has been replaced by a broken moped engine.

I also managed to find a girl who's willing to come within five feet of me without equipping herself with a Taser. It was nice to finally have a Valentine's Day where I didn't sit alone in my room, brooding about the misery of life while masturbating furiously like a gorilla with ADHD (that resumed the next day). I even made a Valentine's Day card out of semen and glitter, spelling out "I love you" in sparkly letters. (That went to my Mum; I just got one from the grocery store for my girlfriend.)

Whoever decided it was a good idea to assemble such a diverse group of zany freaks in one place is probably not the smartest guy around, as you can probably assume. However, a group of equally moronic people known as teachers were tasked with controlling, and—get this—educating us. All the teachers at the school started out perky enough, but after a few degrading months, they either began to have violent moods swings that caused their prim exterior to melt away into demonic rage, or they simply fell into a state of clinical depression. Many of them achieved a good balance between the two.

I often felt a beautifully rare sense of irony when teachers told me off, especially when they made comments like, "You'll get nowhere in life!" The beauty, of course, that they were middle-aged, low-wage drones who spent their time arguing with morons while lapsing into ever-worsening states of depression that will probably lead to drug- and alcohol-fuelled heart attacks by the time they're 50.

In Year 10, I went on a school trip to Spain, where a Spanish guy approached my group to advertise his pizza parlour, adding, "There's lots of crrrrazy pussy in there!" There were many interesting individuals that made up the teaching staff. My history teacher's chin contained an enormous crevasse, for example. I suspected that it was actually a portal to another dimension. I used to look forward to the day when he would get so pissed off with a pupil that he simply walked over and consumed them with his chin.

One of the math teachers was a particularly masculine woman who boasted a crew cut and a pair of breasts that sagged down to the point where they rested on top of her skirt. She always wore a watch, though her ability to tell the time was restricted by the fact that the rolls of fat on her arm cascaded down to engulf the timepiece. The best part of our math lessons was hearing her from across the math department, shouting. Imagine an infuriated rhinoceros in a cage, which you've just spent half an hour throwing peanuts at.

Two of the most terrifying teachers I encountered were called Miss Dix and Miss Beer. The former was a gargantuan beast with skin like a slug that's had a dangerous amount of salt poured onto it, whose bellowing tones and angry stampeding around the corridors was reminiscent of one of those trolls from Lord of the Rings. In contrast, Miss Beer (sticking to the unabashedly dorky Lord of the Rings analogies here) was more like one of those black riders: quiet, but incredibly frightening. Her voice was like an eerie mist that pervades the eardrums and haunts one's nightmares. It's the sort of voice a serial rapist might have as he whispers in your ear while dragging you back to his lair. Together, this creepy and horrifying duo was to indirectly terrify me for the duration of my stay at Worthing High, keeping me on my toes for fear that they may be stomping/drifting down the corridor behind me, ready to pounce and devour my entrails while ranting about school rules regarding mobile phones.

The Pedophile Chronicles 9You're probably wondering, "Surely there's a pedophile in here somewhere!" Yeah, we've got a few. My former drama teacher (who, for the purposes of anonymity, I shall call "Mr. Rapey") was one of the most easy-to-spot pedophiles I've ever encountered. I'm glad I didn't ever have to experience one of his detentions—whereas most teachers would increase the amount of time you'd have to stay behind, depending on the severity of your crime, I expect our drama teacher just increased the amount of fingers he used…. I'd often wondered why there was a gimp mask and a saddle at the back of the props cupboard.

My time at Worthing High has certainly been eventful. In Year 10, I went on a school trip to Spain, where a Spanish guy approached my group to advertise his pizza parlour, adding, "There's lots of crrrrazy pussy in there!" followed by a suggestive display of tongue-flicking. He certainly knew his target market well… and evidently possessed impressive cunnilingus skills, too! This man is going to go far in life, methinks.

Worthing High may have been an awful school, but it was so awful, it was good. To say I've regretted going there would only be mostly true. I've met some people who have re-defined the term "retard"; I've seen enough chavs to fill an Olympic swimming pool; and I've learned only one thing: that 95% of the people you will meet in life will be wankers. Ugly wankers. But there will always be that wonderful 5%—the non-wankers, or slightly less wanky wankers, whose wanking is always done in good grace. Wank. Just thought I'd add another one there.

It's almost sad to have to leave Worthing High. Almost, but not quite. My last days there were spent taking exams. During these events, our halls were patrolled by invigilators, peering over people's shoulders like hawks. My favourite invigilator was a repulsive, overweight woman who waddled around the hall, her face clearly showing pain from the physical exertion. Nothing says "Get back to your work" like witnessing her gigantic, warbling arse floating across your vision. There's also a slightly creepy-looking man whose trousers are positioned higher than Simon Cowell's. I was seated at the back of the hall for my most recent exam, and he came and stood behind me. I thought he might have taken a liking to me, but I soon realized he had instead positioned himself so that he could look at the underwear of the girl in front of me, which was halfway up her back.

So, I shall march dutifully onwards, waiting to start college while staving off boredom through the wonderful art of masturbation. I'll be running out of tissues soon; luckily, my top drawer is full of old socks. Why did I write this long, grumbling piece, I hear you ask? Even I don't know, but it's best to express it now rather than develop psychiatric issues and go on a shooting spree in Cumbria. Or something.

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