‘My name’s Donut’, although not quite as big as the sousaphone fiasco.
‘Well,’ said Tamara, in her slowest, most chocolatey voice, ‘that at least explains the shoes.’
So now everyone thinks I’m one of those kids who reads the Bible in bed and probably has ‘Jesus Loves Me’ written all over his pyjamas. Even Miss Brotherton looked a bit embarrassed for me.
I don’t know, I seem to have some kind of a social death wish. First there was the ‘My name’s Donut and I love Dermots’ incident, then the Bible thing. You’d think that it would be enough for fate to make me fat without also making me a massive doofus.
Ate two donuts in my room. One South African go-go berry flavour and one Peruvian guinea-pig flavour. Just kidding about the guinea pig. Mr Alexis gave me a plain old jam and I was happy for the length of time it was in my mouth.
That’s enough diary for one day.
DONUT COUNT:
Thursday 21 September
CAME IN THIS morning and there, waiting for me, was the same gang of kids who’d ambushed me with the sousaphone. They all knelt across the path and put their hands together and started praying loudly. I pushed past them but they got up and followed me, shouting ‘Alleluia’, ‘Praise the Lord’, and that sort of thing.
Quite funny, I suppose. For some reason it didn’t get to me the way the sousaphone incident did. But I still really wished that the earth would open up and swallow me. Actually, no, I hoped the earth would open up and swallow them down into its core of molten iron and burn them to a crisp.
In the afternoon it was PE. Except it wasn’t, unless PE stands for ‘Particularly Embarrassing’. Our PE teacher is called Mr Fricker. Mr Fricker has no hands. The word was that he lost them in a terrible accident involving, depending on who tells you:
a helicopter
a lawnmower
the Taliban
an angry dolphin
a sausage-making machine
one of those rotary pencil sharpeners with a handle you have to turn round that went wildly out of control
However it was that he lost his hands, whether torn off by polar bear or gnawed away by ants or dissolved in acid, nobody would ever make fun of Mr Fricker. This wasn’t just because it’s wicked to make fun of people who have lost their hands (or anything really, except maybe unimportant things like a toe or their bus pass). No, you wouldn’t make fun of Mr Fricker because he’s the most terrifying human being who ever lived.
He has two ways of talking. One is very quiet and sinister. It’s the kind of voice a serial killer would use to lure you into his basement.
The second way of talking isn’t talking at all but SHOUTING INCREDIBLY LOUDLY.
The shouting incredibly loudly began in the changing rooms. My PE kit was as tight as a piece of cling film wrapped round a block of cheese , and it took me longer than anyone else to get changed. So Mr Fricker stood about six centimetres away and screamed:
‘MILLIGAN, NOT ONLY ARE YOU TOO FAT BUT YOU ARE ALSO AS SLOW AS A SLOTH IN TREACLE! GET YOURSELF CHANGED, BOY, BEFORE I GO AND FETCH A ROUNDERS BAT AND USE YOUR FAT HEAD AS A BALL.’
The word ‘ball’ was so loud, a bit of plaster actually fell off the ceiling, as if we were in a bunker under heavy artillery fire.
Of course, all the other kids were sniggering because it wasn’t them being screamed at, but then Mr Fricker glared round at them too, the changing-room lights glinting off his baldy head.
After that we just sat in rows while Mr Fricker gave us a long speech about personal hygiene . The boys, that is – the girls were at the other end of the gym getting a similar talk, I imagine, from Miss Gunasekara, Mr Fricker’s second-in-command. At the end of our talk, Mr Fricker glared at us all for a bit longer, then he said:
‘I suppose some of you are thinking that because of my … hand issue ’ – at this point he raised his handless arms – ‘I’m not able to compete at the highest sporting level. But I assure you that I can
‘Well,’ said Tamara, in her slowest, most chocolatey voice, ‘that at least explains the shoes.’
So now everyone thinks I’m one of those kids who reads the Bible in bed and probably has ‘Jesus Loves Me’ written all over his pyjamas. Even Miss Brotherton looked a bit embarrassed for me.
I don’t know, I seem to have some kind of a social death wish. First there was the ‘My name’s Donut and I love Dermots’ incident, then the Bible thing. You’d think that it would be enough for fate to make me fat without also making me a massive doofus.
Ate two donuts in my room. One South African go-go berry flavour and one Peruvian guinea-pig flavour. Just kidding about the guinea pig. Mr Alexis gave me a plain old jam and I was happy for the length of time it was in my mouth.
That’s enough diary for one day.
DONUT COUNT:
Thursday 21 September
CAME IN THIS morning and there, waiting for me, was the same gang of kids who’d ambushed me with the sousaphone. They all knelt across the path and put their hands together and started praying loudly. I pushed past them but they got up and followed me, shouting ‘Alleluia’, ‘Praise the Lord’, and that sort of thing.
Quite funny, I suppose. For some reason it didn’t get to me the way the sousaphone incident did. But I still really wished that the earth would open up and swallow me. Actually, no, I hoped the earth would open up and swallow them down into its core of molten iron and burn them to a crisp.
In the afternoon it was PE. Except it wasn’t, unless PE stands for ‘Particularly Embarrassing’. Our PE teacher is called Mr Fricker. Mr Fricker has no hands. The word was that he lost them in a terrible accident involving, depending on who tells you:
a helicopter
a lawnmower
the Taliban
an angry dolphin
a sausage-making machine
one of those rotary pencil sharpeners with a handle you have to turn round that went wildly out of control
However it was that he lost his hands, whether torn off by polar bear or gnawed away by ants or dissolved in acid, nobody would ever make fun of Mr Fricker. This wasn’t just because it’s wicked to make fun of people who have lost their hands (or anything really, except maybe unimportant things like a toe or their bus pass). No, you wouldn’t make fun of Mr Fricker because he’s the most terrifying human being who ever lived.
He has two ways of talking. One is very quiet and sinister. It’s the kind of voice a serial killer would use to lure you into his basement.
The second way of talking isn’t talking at all but SHOUTING INCREDIBLY LOUDLY.
The shouting incredibly loudly began in the changing rooms. My PE kit was as tight as a piece of cling film wrapped round a block of cheese , and it took me longer than anyone else to get changed. So Mr Fricker stood about six centimetres away and screamed:
‘MILLIGAN, NOT ONLY ARE YOU TOO FAT BUT YOU ARE ALSO AS SLOW AS A SLOTH IN TREACLE! GET YOURSELF CHANGED, BOY, BEFORE I GO AND FETCH A ROUNDERS BAT AND USE YOUR FAT HEAD AS A BALL.’
The word ‘ball’ was so loud, a bit of plaster actually fell off the ceiling, as if we were in a bunker under heavy artillery fire.
Of course, all the other kids were sniggering because it wasn’t them being screamed at, but then Mr Fricker glared round at them too, the changing-room lights glinting off his baldy head.
After that we just sat in rows while Mr Fricker gave us a long speech about personal hygiene . The boys, that is – the girls were at the other end of the gym getting a similar talk, I imagine, from Miss Gunasekara, Mr Fricker’s second-in-command. At the end of our talk, Mr Fricker glared at us all for a bit longer, then he said:
‘I suppose some of you are thinking that because of my … hand issue ’ – at this point he raised his handless arms – ‘I’m not able to compete at the highest sporting level. But I assure you that I can
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