One of the very, very best things about being a schoolteacher is parents evening – we held ours here at St Winifred the Clubfoot’s Primary just yesterday. I had been looking forward to it months in advance and felt sure all the parents felt exactly the same way.
And thus it was that I trembled with excitement as first up were little Charlie Manifold’s mum and partner, Delia and Germaine. Now Charlie is certainly intellectually challenged to the extent that at 9 years old he only answers to the name ‘Fuckwit.’ As much as I keep telling him his real name is Charlie he insists that it is not, indeed refuses to answer to any name other than ‘Fuckwit.’ Obviously this anomaly regarding his forename was troubling me somewhat and I asked mum Delia exactly why her son would only respond to ‘Fuckwit.’ Her riposte was to simply say, ‘Because that is what the little fucker is – and I call a spade a spade.’ Well at least mum was being honest for in truth when it came to discussing Charlie’s academic progress I was at pains to point out that in my view he would likely remain illiterate most probably until the end of his days. Delia replied, “Don’t surprise me one bit. His dad was a turkey baster you know.” Plainly I didn’t know that yet I think when I told her that not everybody in the world could be a brain surgeon and that there will always be a place for those fit for nothing save sweeping roads – after all someone has to perform the menial tasks don’t they? – that that gave her some reassurance as to the boy’s future.
It’s a funny old world and I never cease to be amazed at the things regarding their home life some of the little ones tell me. For example, I had heard from tiny Charmaine, one of my favourite children, earlier in the week that her 15 year old sister Sharon (she was one of my kids also before she went up to big school you know) was pregnant by a rambling rap singer of no fixed abode she seduced and was now expecting quads. I thought it would be most helpful if I gave her parents some of my insightful advice when they pitched up at parents evening. Having dealt with Charmaine’s more than adequate progress I felt compelled to tell her dad Derek that he should not worry too much about being a granddad well before his time as at least his daughter was getting four sproglings for the price of one and that God worked in strange yet meaningful ways. Even though Derek told me to, “Mind your own fucking business and anyway what’s it got to do with you, you interfering bitch” I really do believe my words struck a chord and that can only be a positive thing.
Chomping at the bit as soon as I arrived home last night I decided to pen a little poem based upon the events of parents evening.
TURKEY BASTER & RAPPERS
Charlie sired by turkey baster
His sperm source quite unknown
Though I’m guessing fuckwit begets a fuckwit
When delivering sperm by drone
And Sharon pregnant by rapper
Seems she’s up the duff with quads
Yet if they turn out like her sister Charmaine
They’ll be clever little sods
I intend to drop framed and signed copies of this poem to both respective families this very evening and cannot wait to see the glee in their eyes when I hand them this, my gift of words. Must be off now – jolly hockey sticks and all that!