This blog features made-up Shakespeare references

Sorry for the lack of bloggage in recent weeks, but I have been busy. My humble existence has been filled with more important things than informing a bunch of random perverts, cripples, losers and virgins on the internet my private thoughts about whatever the hell happens to be passing through my brain at the time. I'm sorry, guys, but I have a life outside of this blog, you know? Although I love my fanbase dearly I HAVE BEEN OCCUPIED BY OTHER THINGS. I DON'T JUST EXIST TO PROVIDE YOU WITH ENTERTAINMENT. If anything, the rest of the world exists to amuse ME.
But I digress; my days have been filled (in recent times) with two main venues of pleasure: EXAMS and ROWING.

Exams took the form of English Language, Literature, and Critical Thinking. I know you don't care, but they were all piss easy. Especially English Literature. After spending fucking YEARS learning The Tempest (which I think may be one of Shakespeare's trippiest plays ever... seriously, me must have been on crack when he wrote the Masque scene, in which a load of random goddesses appear for no reason and dance about singing about springtime) for the characters of Ferdinand (wussy loser suckup suitor man), Miranda (wussy loser suckup virgin girl) and Alonso (wuss), we got given questions on Caliban and Ariel (respectively, cool sweary drunken deformed monster-midget, and floaty ass-kicking superhuman wind spirit), possibly the two easiest characters in the play. When I opened the paper and saw the words "Ariel" and "Caliban" I literally leapt out of my chair, hollered a happy whoopee, then tangoed down an aisle clicking my heels. Well, I didn't. I wrote an awesome essay in which I made up things about Elizibethan England and used lots of long words that are too complicated for most of the readers of this blog. I don't like to ring my own bell, but in the words of Prospero, "Thomas is so awesome at English literature exams, I really think he is the most awesome person of all time and everybody should love him" (The Tempest, Act 2 Scene 3)

Anyway, following six hours of exams on Friday, I climbed into a bus and was somehow transported to Nottingham for the weekend long National Schools' Regatta (informally known as Nat Schools', but I didn't want anybody to think that Nat -my new best friend- had got a regatta named after him. Man, that would be a wussy regatta; everyone would have bitch fights, the quads would constantly be crashing into each other and rowing off to behind the stake-boats to weep, and generally nobody would have any fun at all). We stayed in a Citilodge in the centre of Nottingham, and were hosted very hospitibly in this vibrant and prosperous city; at absolutely no point did I fear for my life. You know why? Well, before setting off to Nottingham, I checked out the city website, and that assuaged any fears I may have had about spending time there. I mean, you have to feel safe in a city that has the following disclaimer on its website:



You see that? It's not the most dangerous city at all! I guess that recent, heavily-publicised governmental survey highlighting it as the number one place in Britain for gun crime, vehicular crime and murder, was, in the words of the website "WRONG, WRONG, AND WRONG AGAIN". Didn't stop the government publishing it, though. The town leaders in Nottingham argued heavily against this judgement; they loaded up a stolen truck with machine guns and drove to Downing street firing them wildly in the air in a bid to get the report changed. And good luck to 'em, I say. Somebody has to protect Nottingham's previously squeaky-clean reputation and set the government right about the state of crime in this fair city (as the website says, the correct figures about vehicle crime makes Nottingham only the 6th worst city in Britain, as opposed to the first - THANK GOD FOR THAT).

Of course, you know me. I don't like to make a judgement about something until I've really experienced the horrifying truth about its degradation and seen it with my own eyes. So I did not comment until after I'd visited. To be honest, I think the judgement on gun crime was pretty harsh; while we were there, I didn't seen a SINGLE person being gunned down in the street by armed hoodlums. On the other hand, we weren't allowed to hang about in the street too long - the coaches made us stay indoors for most of the time and we were only allowed outside wearing full-scale medieval suits of armour and flak jackets. I also noticed the following details:

• Just as our minibus got a mile away from the city limits, the teachers parked and glued sheet metal over the windows, before nailing foliage over the body of the bus. "Camoflague", they explained, donning helmets singing Hail-Marys as we drove in.


• When we entered the city, instead of a sign saying "Welcome to Nottingham, twinned with Ningbo, China" there was just a beaten up, bullet-puckered piece of metal on which the words "NOTTINGHAM - OUT OF TOWNERS NOT WELCOME" and "POPULATION 51,209 51,204 51,180 51,152," were scrawled with red paint. This sign was loacated next to an old man sitting on a broken rocking chair who was chewing tobacco, wearing a tartan trucker cap and and weilding a shotgun.


• Every shopfront was made out of reinforced metal slats and chickenwire instead of glass.


• I saw more ammunition shops than bookshops. There were plenty of all-night surgeries, though. Many of them specialised in specific types of ammo, too.


• I didn't see a single Nottingham resident who wasn't packing some sort of heat. Even the babies had mini guns. And I don't mean 'mini' as in 'small'. I mean 'mini' as in 'the first part of the word minigun, as wielded by Arnold in T2: Judgement Day'.


• There were crenellations and sniping holes on top of every building.


• For some reason, every time I stepped out into the streets, a small crosshair appeared in the centre of my vision, along with an ammo gauge at the right, and record of my health/body armour status on the left. It was odd.


• The room service menu included "Prawn Cocktail, Club Sandwich, DD44 Dostovei, KF7 Soviet, US AR33 Assault Rifle, RC-P90, Grenade Launcher, Tank".

So we arrived in NOTTINGHAM, and were quickly ushered into the hotel by a bouncer dressed like a futuristic soldier, with a D5K Deustche at his side and jaded, world-weary look in his narrow, flint-like eyes. We changed into our uniforms and did our warm up exercises. We were ready for Nat Schools' Regatta. But was Nat Schools' Regatta ready... FOR US?

Want to know what happened? Well, you'll have to tune in next time and perhaps I'll tell you!
(I wouldn't get your hopes up. We didn't win anything)

Isn't it sad when sons murder their fathers?

Ode to what happens when people start taking themselves too seriously

Maddox, once king
Of the blogs, you
Were th'bright ray'o wit
Shining through
The fog'f inanity
Plaguing the web
But now you're crap
Not very funny and
You take yours'lf too
Seriously and
You keep going'n
About your fucking
Book, so I made
A cartoon depict'n
You as
A suicidal
Plant.



Now that's poetry!

If you don't watch British Big Brother, don't even bother reading this

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

A DRESS? WHAT WERE YOU THINKING, MAN?

On Friday, it was mufti day at my school. A holy occasion, when (for a small charitable donation of £2) the assorted boys of my fine educational establishment could throw OFF the shackles of school uniform that had for so long kept them enslaved and beaten down and wear their own personal taste in clothes. It was a chance for us to show our true colours, to display our peacock's tails of fashionable tastes to dazzle and overthrow the stuffy confines of 'DA MAN', that unholy bastard of repression and buttoned-down uncool. We could wear whatever we wanted, of any colour, shape, size, smell or sound. The slate was wiped clean when it came to clothes; we had a blank canvas that Da Vinci himself would bow down before. No longer would we be forced to conform, to wear the regulation black trousers and white shirt and standard shoes which had previously been our only allowance. No more! No more, my friends! EXCELSIOR!

So what did I choose to wear for mufti day? Some black trousers and a white shirt. To be specific, the same white shirt that I'd worn two days ago to school. It had tea stains on it. From where I'd spilt tea on myself. And some trainers. Some trainers which I'd worn every day to rowing training at school. To be honest, my mufti outfit was pretty similar to the school uniform which I had just eschewed. My excuse is that I'd totally fogotten that it was mufti and was forced to change out of my skewl uni in like three minutes while listening to hardcore music on my iPod. Why I paid £2 for it I don't know. I could have just shown up wearing standard uniform, not paid the Mufti Levy and then untucked my shirt and taken off my tie. I would have achieved exactly the same effect, without the need to pay any money to charity. Take THAT, you fucking Africans! Next time, get born in a non-shit country. Unfortunately I ended up paying money to charity anyway. But hey, it was pretty cool to not have to wear a tie. TAKE THAT, DA MAN.

Ironically, the fact that I was wearing what could be described as the most regulation mufti clothes ever envisaged still didn't stop me getting told off for apparently looking like a hippy. Here's what happened because I know you are DYING to know. I was walking down the road, listening to some rockin tunes on my iPod when suddenly who appears out of a sidestreet, but THE HEADMASTER OF OUR SCHOOL. OMG. He looks kind of like a huge angry bald owl wearing a suit half a size too small, and he has the most amazing quality of seeming to hate every boy in the school, and completely lacking any semblence of a sense of humour. When he saw me, shirt untucked, no tie, wearing trainers, he looked me up and down with eyes of fury and an expression that could only be replicated by throwing a bucket of icy water and chives over a sleeping cat. Literally, I thought he was about to rip off my head right there and then. I mentally made my will (I want all of my possessions, clothes, furniture and all, loaded into my coffin and melted down) before both wetting AND shitting myself. It was messy.

"YOU DON'T LOOK LIKE A BOY WHO GOES TO MY SCHOOL" he boomed in a voice that would cause Lucifer to cry like a little bitch. I wondered briefly what to say then reverted to curling into a little fetal ball and weeping.
"OH WAIT," he said again, thoughtfully. "IT'S MUFTI TODAY, ISN'T IT?"
He then gave me a look of utter hatred, as if I had somehow aimed to make him look stupid, or as though I had dug up his great grandmother's remains and made an amateur porn movie before distributing it to every boy, teacher, and member of the cleaning staff (AKA the scum) in the school. He then marched up the road at double pace, growling and probably making a mental note to have my lunch poisoned. He is a scary man.

What annoyed me about this situation (after the feeling had returned to my legs and I had drunk several strong cups of tea) was that the mufti I was wearing was like as conformist as it gets. I feel that I was unfairly treated. I mean, if he'd seen the rest of the damn school I bet that he'd've had a fecken embolism. Because, when mufti day rolls around, you won't find a more wretched den of brand-whores, wannabe-rebels and emo scum than my school. It's actually depressing to see the number of TOTALLY ROCKIN' middle class anti-conformist freakz that come outta the woodwork whenever they're given the slightest chance to express their unique and beautiful personalities.

I can just about stand the fat public schoolboys who have never even seen a skateboard wearing Quicksilver bandannas, or the rich semi-black mummy's boys who haven't been out of Teddington except to come to school and go on holiday to Rock or St Ives wearing their gangsta-rap jeans, or the statistics students with braces wearing their Che Guavara hats that their mums bought them the last time they went to Kingston. I see the inherent hilarious comedy in the demi-Emos who wander about in their ultra-tight jeans and stupid belts and silly haircuts, trying to pretend that A: anybody cares about their stupid fashion or sham of a lifestyle and B: being emo means ANYTHING any more (after the original hazy days of emo-dom when emos were worshipped for the nihilistic self-destructive streak and being emo was cooler than being black). No, what really annoys me is those cunts who wear the most stupid fucking things they possibly can just to show off their awesome anti-conformist viewpoint on life.

I don't mean people who go all-out to look ridiculous in order to make fun of themselves and the entire concept of self-image (Like that guy who was dressed as the Flash - LEGEND). To clarify, my words are more directed at people who think that they are making some sort of deep social point by dressing like a mong. I have the opinion that people who have nothing to say are usually the ones who try to make themselves look interesting by coming to school wearing full miliary dress and stilettos; the interesting kids are usually the ones dressed the most boringly (like in, say, a linen shirt and black trousers - YES I THINK I'M INTERESTING GET OVER IT). To exemplify and clarify further, my words are mostly directed at the twat who decided to show up to school wearing the following things:

• A bowler hat.


• Makeup (like, white stuff on his face and Clockwork Orange style eyeliner)


• A jet black T-Shirt of a metal band I'd wager good money he's never seen live.


• A stupid belt.


• Black jeans that were wider than he was tall.


• About 5kg of bright silver jewelery in the form of necklaces and bangles.


• A FUCKING BLACK TUTU OVER THE TOP OF ALL OF THIS.

I mean, christ. A tutu. What. The fuck. Was he thinking? I can't possibly hazard a guess. Actually, yes I can. He was thinking "OMG I CAN REALLY STAND OUT AND BE COOL BY WEARING ALL THIS NON-CONFORMIST STUFF OMG THE GUYS ARE GONNA FREAK I'M SUCH A REBEL LOL LOL LOL!!!!1!". I could tell that by the smug way he stood in the middle of the corridor so I couldn't possibly not look at him, hands on hips, as if to say "Yep, look at me, I'm wearing a tutu. Are you? No, because you aren't a rebel like me. I fucking owned you on the rebellious front, mate. You suck. I don't though, because I'm a rebel. REBEL. That's me."

I suppose he had a point; after all, all the great rebels of history (Winston Churchill, that guy who started the french revolution, Kurt Cobain, Mr Linkin Park, Hitler) are known first and foremost for the wild and wacky clothes that they wore. Did you know that Tolstoy, the man who single handedly revolutionised and bucked the trend of the modern novel, chose to write wearing bright yellow flares, a trilby hat and a pink ribbon? It's true. So true.

I was thinking about tracking down and beating that tutu guy to death with my teeth, just for being a stupid prick, but then I was struck by a happy thought. I came to the realisation that I have absolutely no recollection of what this guy looked like, what his voice sounded like, what he was even saying. I probably walked past him in the corridor three times today and I didn't even give him a second glance. This leads me to believe that he actually is a total non-entity and that in fifteen years time he will be yet another boring accountant or lawyer or stock trader, another pointless statistic in a mind-numbingly depressing vortex of isolation who cries himself to sleep every night over the total fucking pointlessness of his existance before finally blowing off his head with a sniper rifle, mourned by nobody but his gay little dog and his collection of porcelain models of Usher, while the smart kids, the ones who didn't waste time dressing up like retarded clowns to gain social acceptance and instead just watched the world and thought about things, get to have fun with their lives and express themselves in a non-homosexual manner.
This thought made me happy. Very happy. I'm so bitter. MWAHAHAHHAHAH!

New Cartoon:

(click for bigger)

And as a final note, people who wear rings are fucking retarded. Dickheads.

Damn females.

They fly off the handle at the slightest thing you say. Well, I say 'you say' in the metaphorical, analagous way, to gain a connection with the readership, because in reality I mean 'I say'. Because it's mostly me. Usually, when girls are about, everyone else I know can bite their tongue and not point out an obvious physical deformitys ("LOLZ YOU ONLY HAVE ONE EYEBALL!"), social gaffes ("LOLZ YOU JUST SNEEZED!") or grammatical errors ("Seriously, you need to use "Whom" in that sentence, not "Who", you daft bint") used by the fairer sex. So everyone else just bites their tongue and smiles and says something cute while I'm the only one noticing and pointing out the obvious flaws that would otherwise go unnoticed. Do I get thanked for it? No.

Well I mean, I make ONE comment about a girl's vagina being so big it covers 2 percent of the world (well, I set it as my MSN screen name for like two days) and suddenly she gets all upset and 'livid' and 'you're gonna get beaten down so hard by her on Saturday' and stuff. Why would you get that upset? If anything it's a compliment to be thought of as that much of a ho. Like Annabel Chong: you are a hero to all teenage boys everywhere with your loose ways.
It's like that time I called this other fat girl fat. She acted all surprised and shocked when I accidentally mentioned it. I don't get it, surely she must have noticed that she was fat with the way that her parents had to steel-reinforce the floor and the local kids called her "Whaley" and she got fed a dustbin-liner full of bacon fat every day. SURELY. But no, I say ONE THING, one TINY THING about her weight problem and you know what happens? Well if you've read this blog for more than a week you will have. I get shouted out of the house. SHOUTED OUT OF THE HOUSE. I guess that girls don't understand that when I'm cussing them, I'm only cussing them ironically. As in 'you are fat, but -ho-ho- we don't really like to talk about that much, you see, because I'M JOKING YOU DUMB BINT'. For some reason females lack the part of the brain that is able to decipher 'ironic cussing'. (Ironically, they also lack the part of the brain that is able to decipher 'not ironing')

And I, being the defender of irony and cuss-downery, fight day in day out to maintain the noble combination of ironic cuss-downery, and what thanks do I get for it? None.

Is that justice? I don't think so. Bloody females. I abstractly wonder why they are constantly on the brink of hurting me. I guess it must be all the hormones. That, and the fact that their vaginas explode every thirty days. BLAM. Trickle. Eww.
If only girls would consent to me making sarky YET FULLY JUSTIFIED comments about their size/shape/appearance/mental fitness/smell/personality/face then everyone (ie me) would be a lot happier. But no, I must struggle along, fighting the brave solitary fight on alone. You know what? I'm actually quite a hero in my own way.

Whatever. I did another cartoon.



(That isn't the actual cartoon. It was a three second doodle done on the back of my 'IMPORTANT NOTICE TO ALL CANDIDATES TAKING GCSE/GCE EXAMINATIONS AND THEIR PARENTS' booklet, which neither I nor my parents have read. The actual cartoon was too huge to display on blogspot due to its utter awesomeness. Click on lil' stick man's left eyeball to view the actual masterpiece of ironic comedy)

If you think that cartoon was aimed at you in some way, you are probably right. It was. Seriously, stop texting me every time some random paranoid thought drifts across your frontal lobe. It's annoying. Bug someone else with your neurotic worries.



In this picture I was just testing out my ability to draw a chair.

Why do all of my doodles either feature stick men having gun fights, or stick men committing suicide? Does this say something about my mental state? Whatever, this entire post was just an excuse to post the acid cartoon. As you might have guessed, the rest of it was kind of tacked on as an afterthought.

Another cartoon?

What?



Huh?

I don't know.

I might blog something proper soon.

I MIGHT.

There's a certain lack of inspiration goin' down in da hood today...

(If your eyes are too gay to read my tiny writing, just click on it for a version that's slightly less huge than my penis. You're not missing much, though)

I don't know. I just don't know. I walked upstairs like an hour ago with the purpose of getting myself a job in a Rowing magazine. I ended up drawing more shitty cartoons. This one was the least blatantly racist, so there you go.

Oh well, I'm going to a party-cum-gathering in about an hour. So I'm more popular than you.

Cool.

Sorry for the lateness in posting, but I've been busy...

At School. But not working. Oh, no. And not rowing, either, even though that takes up a large portion of my time. No, I have been devoting my attentions to a much graver and infinitely more pressing matter. For it seems that my school, once an innocent utopia of bare-kneed schoolboys running cheerily to class, red-cheeked scamps bringing apples to their teachers and lovingly consensual public-education sodomy, has become something much darker and more sinister. It has taken on a foul edge which both disturbs and horrifies me. There is something terribly... wrong with my school. Something ancient and awful and scaly. As I walk down the corridors I can feel the barely repressed power of evil crackling through my shoes and boiling my mucus.

You know that feeling you get when you feel that something horrible is standing right behind you and preparing to eat your neck, but when you turn around, you realise that there's actually nothing and you're really just being a retard? Yeah? Well when I walk down the corridors in my school, I get that feeling too. The only difference is that when I turn round I see that an ancient froglike creature with multi-faceted bulging eyeballs and a Primal Scream T-shirt has already stabbed me four times in the neck with a fondu fork before hopping off.

This evil corruption has only just come to my attention, but I realise now that it's been there all along, a hideously repulsive being that sits just out of the corner of my eyes and sings a hideous screaming din two octaves higher than my hearing can detect (kind of like Mariah Carey). I've been trying to ignore its presence for all these years (also kind of like Mariah Carey), but now I'm forced to finally acknowledge and face up to it (unlike Mariah Carey, who I hope dies of leukemia before I'm forced to listen to any of her 'songs'). For, you see, I have been offered a responsibility; a gauntlet, if you will, an ancient brotherhood of chosen ones who must relinquish their childhood and take up the mantle of Men to protect and serve their schoolmates and comrades, often at the very brutal costs of their own lives and dreams. After a short, musical montage of shots of me sitting on a sofa thinking about it, I have decided that the only thing that a proper man can do is to take up this heavy burden and to accept the consequences of being the saviour of the people of the future, to fight against the evil that pervades my school, to strike it dead with my metaphorical sword of justice and, hopefully, to survive to live a full life, however unlikely that may be.

Yes, my friends, Thomas the schoolboy is no more. I have now become... Thomas The Prefect.

OMG. Yes, I have become a Prefect at my school. Can you believe it, me? I couldn't believe it, either, but I'm holding the truth in my hands. I am a Prefect, one of the elite of my educational facility, truly the utter cream of my intellectual crop. For those of you who don't know, the word "prefect" comes from the Olde Englishe word "fraklax", meaning, depending on your translator, "God Amongst Men", "Protector of Mankind", "Owner of a giant penis" or, far less commonly and popularly, "Pointlessly redundant position of power". But to be honest, the scholars who devised the latter position were just jealous that they didn't pass the rigorous selection process required to become a member of the Modern Knights Templar.
Because, I gotta tell you, boy, the selection process was tough. Firstly, we all had to give a blood sample, drawn directly from our eyeballs with a piece of craft paper, to make sure that we were free of drugs, blood-borne diseases, tubeworms, alien parasites and the evil blood of the foul beast-king Chattur’gha. Then followed an intense elimination period where we were forced to wrestle lions, slice open our own testicular sacks with a pair of nail clippers, listen to Dido's greatest hits, and then cage-fight yetis. But that was only the beginning, for the few that survived had to go through the hardest task of all: We had to fill in a form saying that perhaps we wanted to be Prefects, and then the teachers just arbitrarily chose us out of the long list. That was by far the hardest shit I've ever done in my entire life, that form. I mean, I had to find a PEN then I had to remember my NAME and, like, write WHY I wanted to be a prefect and shit, and, well, I have to tell you that the experience nearly killed me. I'm not even joking. By the time that form was filled in, I was crying like a baby and bleeding out of both eyeballs. Phew.

But, hey, as it turned out, all the hard form filling-in was worth it, as just a few weeks ago I was told that I was one of the FEW (about 75 in all out of our year of roughly 95 students, which just goes to show how strict the selection process was) new Prefects. Immediately I became an integral part of history. For the title of Prefectitude is as ancient and long lasting as the very bricks of immigrant blood on which this country was founded; nowadays the title is just as respected as it was in the Middle Ages, when prefects got their own private common rooms replete with red leather-bound chairs and whiskey-midgets, as well as canes with which to beat the younger pupils and the privilege of being allowed to grow luxurious handlebar moustaches. Of course, nowadays, the massive perks of being a Prefect are subtler, but still grandiose and amazing. First and foremost, all Prefects get a lifetime supply of one of the most important commodities available in the fast-moving world of today: respect. Yes, just by becoming a prefect in my school, one gets instant kudos and street-kred. For nothing is cooler than the ultimate power of being one of the chosen few. I mean, just look at the huge range of people whom I have power over and who will respect me, just because I am a prefect:

• Smaller, weaker, younger, less handsome male students in the lower years who happen to attend my school.

Of course, there are the odd few people who overpower me, and in my opinion, that's a good thing. It's like the Cold War: you can't give too much power to one person or it will go to his head and he will end up destroying the world. Therefore, I need a few Russias to counterbalance the awesome power of me, as the nuclear-missile-equipped Prefect of America. These come in the shape of:

• Anybody bigger than me.


• Anybody older than me.


• Teachers.


• Adults.


• Other prefects.


• Anybody who doesn't respect the power of the Office of Prefect (believe me, for some reason such people exist)


• Senior Prefects.

Wait?? WHAT'S THAT? WHAT'S THAT YOU SAY? SENIOR PREFECTS? Yes, such things exist, but we only speak of them in whispers. We must be glad that there are Senior Prefects, those holy meccas of manhood who have a much more important job than us normal Prefects and thus deserve all our love and respect. We must pray to God and thank him every night for making the Senior Prefects to guide us. I mean, there are some people out there - misguided fools - who think that *HAHAHAHA* being a Senior Prefects is an arbitrary, nominal post that means nothing and is just an excuse for the teacher's pets to be extra-rewarded for being suck ups. Such people are wrong. WRONG I SAY. That's all there is to it. WRONG. Because - I mean - why would our teachers do that? Just to add another layer of pointless hierachy and give an ego-boost to the already megalmonaiacal pupils at the upper echelon of the school by giving them a meaningless title that somehow conveys superiority without the drawbacks of power? HAH, as if! You people make me laugh! Losers!

But I haven't even mentioned the most awesome part of being a Prefect yet, the thing that really tells you that you've finally made it in the world. More important than respect. More important that money. More important than life itself. Yes, I'm talking about... the Tie. You see, most of the [scum] non-prefects in our school have the standard school tie. It's blue. It has little yellow lions on it. And stripes. It's ok, I guess... IF YOU'RE A FRENCHMAN. But when you're a Prefect, you get something better. Something... amazing. You get one of THESE BAD BOYS:



You see that? You see that? Look at it carefully. Can you see any stripes on that tie? Can you? Can you? No? THAT'S BECAUSE THERE AREN'T ANY! NO STRIPES! HOLY SHIT, JUST LOOKING AT THAT TIE MAKES ME SO EXCITED A BLOOD VEIN IN MY NOSE BURST OPEN AND I'M SPRAYING BLOOD ACROSS THE DESK! That tie is like gold dust in my school. You wear that tie, and crowds of people just move apart to allow you uncumbered egress while you're walking down the corridor (kind of like Jesus splitting the waters of the Red Sea, but far more awesome). It's like a police badge, but really much more impressive, because what you're doing is really Making A Difference.

But, Thomas, what are you doing? I hear you ask. What is it? I'll tell you what: DUTIES. Yes, all prefects, Senior and Normal flavour alike, must perform duties. Without such duties being performed, the school will split asunder under the power of the horrifying wave of evil and chaos that stalks every corridor. Why, if I stop and think what'd happen if somebody didn't pin up the room changes signs every day, or if the newspapers weren't carried to the Common Room, or if (heaven forbid) somebody didn't show up to man the Tuck Shop Queue... I tell you, it'd be like fucking Sodom and Gonnorrah within a day. Nobody would survive. That's why we Prefects are so vital: we do the jobs that nobody else will. Like be in charge of Lunch Cards during the 12:50 rush.

I have one of the most dangerous and important jobs of all: every Friday I must patrol the main block at lunchtimes and breaks. I must wander about, stopping any badness going on in classrooms and reporting any evil-doers to a teacher for immediate Hot Justice. If needs must, I should also use the most potent weapon in a Prefect's armoury: Recommending that a fellow pupil be given a detention. It's the final resort, the one that no Prefect wants to be forced to use, but knows that he must when the situation demands it. I feel the power of the Recommended Detention just burning in my grip, and I know that, should the time come, I am ready to use it.

I did my first solo duty last week. It was pretty exciting. I walked around the halls and nothing much happened. Although, as I realised as I performed my second lap of the chemistry department, I was unlikely to do anything if I saw any naughtiness going on. I mean, for fuck's sake, if I see a multi-classroom riot going on, I feel that it's unlikely that they're going to stop and surrender if I walk in yelling "PREFECT! STOP!". Maybe they would; I don't know. Luckily, the corridors were surprisingly quiet and I wasn't forced to murder anybody with the throwing knife that I'd brought along especially for the occasion. Well, there was one small incident. Look, I drew a picture in Private Study:


(For those of you whose eyes don't work properly, the words in the first frame are "me" and "rapscallion")

I spent far too long writing this.

Criminals beware, for he's coming. Any time, any place, as long as it's in school, he is coming for you... beware the mighty... beware the incredible... PREFECT MAN!