It’s me, the class clown.

So as I’ve mentioned in previous blogs I went to a Catholic school, and of course I was that naughty kid there.

Obviously, teachers don’t like sarcastic fucks like me…

I went to St James, a little high school in the suburb of Cheadle Hulme. The school was tiny, probably the smallest high school in Stockport, if not the whole of Manchester – we didn’t even have stairs. Imagine that. Going to school in a fucking cottage full of Catholics!?

As it was such a small school you can imagine everyone knew everybody else’s business, which was good and very very fucking bad.

For 5 whole years I managed to stay under the radar, pulling strings and spreading everyone else’s gossip – but I wouldn’t let a word be said about me. This is what high school was all about.

I thought I was hilarious, the class clown, and so far, I haven’t grown out of that one. You should see me at work…

Picture this: I’m sat at the back of every class. I reek of fake tan. I have no idea what the fuck the teacher is trying to say because I’m trying to text my mates with the fewest characters so my bastard phone didn’t charge me more than 10p.

Some would say this caught up with me, as the school began to more closely monitor my attendance, my attitude, and my uniform. 3 more fucking badges of honour for me darling, get them on my blazer mum.

I was told I should go and see the school councillors, apparently it’d help me.

Help me in what? There was nothing wrong I’m just fucking naughty! However, as soon as I realised it was during lessons I agreed and sat with the counsellors drinking hot chocolate and eating biscuits and ‘talking about my attitude’ and then I’d swan out of there and see what my idiot mates were learning in class.

Everyone thinks school is all about them, but for everyone at St James School the days were about me. Of course.

I have always been very good at maths, and still am. I didn’t want to be anywhere NEAR the top sets though, so I flunked all the assessments and made sure I stuck with mates. Maths classes became a total piss around, and we all stuck together.

Stories from those classes though, they were something else. I can barely believe the shit we did. I would wind up the teacher until she cried and hid in a cupboard, we spread loads of daft rumours to try and get her fired, and my friend Courtney shoved a pencil up her bum. Like Mean Girls but in Cheadle Hulme.

Looking back, it was fucking awful.

Mrs Alcorn was sick of me half way through Year 10 but I didn’t care, I was ready to ace that stupid GCSE and get on with real life. So I didn’t care that she moved me out of the classroom and onto a chair in the corridor with a separate book so I could teach myself.

I still didn’t care, pulling faces through the glass, and messing around in the corridor.

As well as maths, I studied English, Art, ICT, French (I was WANK), Science, Religion and PE. I gave no fucks about any of them, especially English (as you can probably fucking tell). PE was different though. I actually cared about that and the only thing that would actually piss me off was if I was taken out of that class. I was very physical and extremely competitive and PE genuinely became the reason I went to school. In my final year I would get to school early and run around the AstroTurf before getting changed and heading to my form room.

I guess PE was my ‘stress relief’, and it seemed to work.

I sat my GCSE’s I didn’t do great, in anything other than PE. School and education was never my strong point. But obviously I thought I had it all; I was funny, good at running and was the best hockey player in the school so with these skills I was well on my way to making millions…

We were little hustlers as well, the shop near my mum’s house used to serve me cigarettes and I’d sell them in the passage for 50p and make enough money to buy vodka on a weekend. Fucking built for The Apprentice me. Lord Sugar will see me now.

Being the dog’s bollocks was tough though, I wanted to set the tone with my pink Nike’s and make sure everyone knew where I was, but it meant I had to spend most of my time shut away in the head of year’s classroom.

I was a little shit. If I could go back to school and do it all again I probably wouldn’t change much, it has made me who I am today (a loud and obnoxious nob head).

The only thing I would change is the way I treated members of staff. It must have been a nightmare to be a teacher crying in front of a room of 14 year-old shit bags.

So if you’re reading this Mrs Alcorn – I’m sorry for being a bitch, but I’m sure you want to hear I’m still a class A dick and still amazing at maths!

Lizi XX

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