Report for Paddy
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SummaryPerfectly Exquisite

Paul Bradfield was a Patrick Sears (see Patrick Sears). His life was a non stop carnival of misery and pain, and many long hours were spent chained to railings and crying. (The railing he was chained to was directly outside the staffroom window, and yet, no-one came...). Anyway - the highlight of Paul's career was the day the rumour began that he'd been shagging his cat. The magic of rumours like this is that they don't have to be true - his reaction made us want to believe it. The plush pussies followed. The stickers. The chalk pictures on every blackboard in the school. Every year, every pupil knew that Paul Bradfield shagged his cat. Eventually his parents complained, but you can't exactly punish an entire school, can you?

Sung to the tune of the 'Country Life Butter' advert, it went something like this:
Oh, we are the lads from the durex club,
and you'll never get a better bit of rubber on your knob,
it sticks to your dick like evo-stick,
and you can't get it off in the morning...
Imagine my horror when I learned that leaving condom removal to the next day was generally considered to be socially unacceptable. Also,
I'm Popeye the sailor man,
I live in a caravan,
I go to my granny,
And tickle her fanny,
I'm Popeye the sailor man.
Being from Burnley, I can believe it of many of the people who sang it.

We loved the film Aliens. In fact we loved it so much we constantly tried to emulate the scene where Bishop the android did that trick with the knife, rapidly sticking it between his fingers.nnUnfortunately, our school workshops didn't have a wide variety of knives, but displaying schoolboy ingenuity we improvised with chisels. Of course we only used very narrow chisels.nnPaul Hopkins, on the other hand (a very large, hairy boy who wasn't allowed to drink orange juice) decided to attempt this death defying feet with a 1 inch chisel instead. With a booming cry of "I can do that!", he promptly slammed the pointy end of the chisel through most of his finger and into the table top, creating a spray of thick blood that reached all the way to the gang of girls at the next table. The wierd thing was, they made more noise than Paul did.nnThis is the same large hairy boy who decided to slap me on the back so hard that I nearly embedded my head in a table. Fortunately, the table was saved by the pencil that I was using (rubber end down) to correct a minor mistake, while the pointy end made contact with the back of my sinuses. Apparently, half an inch more and I would have been in mortal peril. Of course, we all had a good laugh about it the next week when I returned - and Paul affectionately dubbed me "Pencil Face" as a constant reminder of his valiant effort to kill me dead with my own writing implement.nnYou'd think this would be enough, but no... you see, Paul had a new level of dimwittedness hardwired into his brain - some kind of reverse step of evolution, perhaps. Which is why he also managed to hand in his GCSE Design and Technology project in a large plastic folder which he also used to conceal his pornographic magazine collection. Without removing three copies of Razzle, a Fiesta Shaven Havens special, and a rather bizarre magazine called Animal 7 that he claimed he found in a hedge.

There was a bizarre computer program at our school where you entered your potential grades in GCSE/A Level, filled in a questionnaire about your likes and dislikes, and in return got a list of jobs that were right for you. I got 'Blacksmith' and 'Fast Food Manager'. Fortunately, the accuracy of the offending program has been proved to be questionable at best. Though I suppose it would be quite nice, being a blacksmith.

Achieved by daubing a little tomato ketchup on the front of your grey trousers, and running your crotch into girls' faces. They might not get what's going on, so explain; say "I've got a red ender!"

We had a teacher called Mr Roberts, who had a really gay voice. In our sex education lessons we were giggling at the word vagina. His response - "Well you wouldn't make very good doctors would you - what would you do if I came into your surgery and said 'Doctor, there's something wrong with my vagina'?". Sometimes people just ask for it.