Nottingham Part 1: The Home of Gang Warefare and Lace Museums

Well, here it is, the first part in a trilogy of four. I arrived in school on Friday 6th July to gasps and cries of disbelief. No, I didn't have exams or lessons to go to, for they had finally terminated long ago. Instead, all students in the year had to return their text books to school.

As I arrived, an exasperated teacher asked why I was wearing 'casual' clothes.

"Because," I told her (him? I'm not altogether sure actually), "I am getting a train in half an hour, and don't, forgive me, particularly wish to travel on a three hour journey across the country wearing my school uniform."

"But you're an ambassador to the school," she stressed earnestly.

"But I don't really care, miss," I replied, pushing past into the canteen where they had decided to stage this horrific event. Perhaps I should have addressed it as 'Sir'.

After meeting all of my teachers and exchanging books for signatures, I had to take the form (on blue paper for no apparent reason) to the school office to have it signed again and any outstanding bills paid.

The cheeky bitch then asked me to give back my locker keys.

"What?!" I retorted, "Its my own bloody padlock!"

"Yes, but you have to return it because its the school's locker."

After about five minutes arguing over who owns the padlock and key that I purchased from Lidl, one of the more respectful and understanding teachers came along and resolved the issue in my favour. Aside from myself, he is probably the only person in the building with an ounce of common sense about his person.


So, after all this pissing about with books (and Jingo's books as well! The lazy bastard buggered off to China and left me with his list of books to return! Shit that reminds me, he has got an outstanding payment for his Chemistry book he never returned. They won't give him his GCSE results without it. Should I tell him readers? I don't imagine he ever reads the entire post anyway. I never read his all the way through - how boring) I left the school. Bet them brackets confused you for a moment there. Chortle. Aren't I sneaky.

Furthermore, I had a train to catch. What I said earlier about getting it in half an hour was several kilos of army surplus grade bollocks: I had three hours to kill. This journey was surprisingly good compared with what I normally am unfortunate enough to experience.

I arrived in Nottingham to a hearty greeting from my still-brown-haired 67 year-old grandfather and his snazzy new Mazda 3. I'm not sure how the car gave me a hearty greeting though. He dodged in and out of lines of green taxis to get out of the station complex and progressed on wards to my grandparent's home. We also had to dodge in and out of lines of gun fire exchanged between the local gangs, but I'll save that story for another post.

Nottinghamshire County Police Force on patrol

After an excruciatingly slow and painful 10 minute journey back to their house, I stepped over the threshold with my bag into a spinning world of fabric softener, organic vegetables and tasteless upholstery. I've never been more glad to get away from home.