Things I always wanted to say at Parents' Evening

My name is Gary and I was a teacher. Phew! There. That was difficult.

I was a teacher for 19 years and there were parts of the job I loved, like filling in data, bowing down to senior leaders younger than most of my shoes, writing reports, Sports Day, pointless meetings. Oh, and the marking. God, I loved the marking. 

Yeah, sorry, and working with kids, a bit.

But there is one thing that I can safely say, all teachers hate. Parent - teacher consultation, parents' evening. Call them what you will. They were a ball-ache. 

The only saving grace was having a bottom set which invariably had fewer kids in. It was a great feeling walking into the hall, waving my barely populated appointment schedule, safe in the knowledge that most of them wouldn't turn up anyway.

---

I remember you from school, and you were a prick then. It's nice to see you've passed that trait on to your kids like some precious heirloom.

Personality clash? Are you kidding me? Surely there has to be another personality in this relationship for me to clash with.

I think what we're both avoiding saying is that your son is a cock; he'll probably always be a cock and the sooner we accept this the better it will be for everyone.

Do you even know what a book is? And it's my fault.

So it's my fault that your son is so focused on surreptitiously massaging his boner through his trouser pocket in every lesson that he doesn't listen to a damn word I say or ever do any work.

One day, your son will be on a sex register. 

Yes, it is a fucking problem that you are 30 minutes late and I have waited here like a spare dick at a wedding just to obsequiously smile and pretend to care about your child's progress.

Seriously? You two? You are punching above your weight, mate.

Sorry, can you repeat all of your concerns there - I was trying to remove a bit of flapjack from between my teeth.

Why are you wearing so much make-up? You've got this confused with speed dating.

Fuck me, you smell. I can see where your son or daughter gets it from now. Seriously, can't you smell it. What's wrong with you. It's like a baby's nappy, covered in hair and then set fire to.

Why are you here? You don't care - I don't care. Let's just end this charade.

Sorry. I was a little distracted there. I was watching the student helper who is bringing me a coffee, in the vain attempt to stop me from killing one of you tossers, spill it all over the floor. 

Seriously, I have nothing to say. We both know your child is perfect and they don't even need my help. Go home.

One day, your child will murder someone; if they haven't done so already.

What is wrong with your child? They're so good. I suggest you have a Tequila and Meths weekend. Live a little.

We both know that the sooner your son gets laid and gets that out of the way, the sooner we can focus on his exams.

English. Eng - lish. Reading and stuff. For fuck's sake. How are you even upright?

No, he's in the bottom set because he's a fucking genius and no one has spotted it yet!

Why is your child so nice? It's just creepy.

I'm just going to show you this data and charts in the hope that you'll feel uncomfortable and fuck off. 

I know he is spirited. Yes, I know he has a sharp wit. Yes, he has got a lot to say. But sometimes, well, most of the time, I just want to punch him. Just once. In the face. For his own good. 

Didn't we hook up in sixth form? Christ, we did, didn't we? Oh no. I will never look at your daughter in the same way again. Does she know? Shall we tell her, just for a laugh?

Let's not talk about exams. What's the point, we may as well chat about the Dead Sea Scrolls. Look at him.

The sooner you get him pushing trolleys the better. He could steal a march on the competition as they only have two positions in the local Tescos. 

Revision? No, Don't bother. Just get her to practise in front of the mirror every morning 'Do you want fries with that?'

I was always wondering why your daughter is such a bitch. I can see now.

Can we make this really quick? Bake Off's on tonight.