Last year I found a couple of huge boxes full of my notes from year seven through to year thirteen. Which was quite a lot of years ago. I burnt a lot of it on Halloween and Bonfire Night – seemed appropriate – then recycled the rest when I realised that I’d be there forever. I kept a few pieces that made me laugh. Today I thought, it’s a billion degrees out and I don’t like football, so let’s go through them and take the piss!
Year Seven: History
Turns out I got started in witches quite early. I actually remember making this with another student, in one of the first collaborative projects of year seven. Excellent work enlarging the text box, there…
I think we got good marks, though. The inside of the diary is long since lost but those cardboard-and-sugar-paper lasted well!
Year Eight: English & Science
If memory serves, that teacher is the one I part-dedicated The Princess and the Dragon to (she taught my classes again in sixth form). I might frame this piece. Coincidentally, year eight was the year a friend and I discovered the nuances of Word Art:
Am still miffed they chucked out Pluto.
Year Nine: French & Fan Fiction
Ah, year nine. I was so, so shit at French. I remember my teacher doing an oral assessment and saying ‘your accent is very good but you don’t… know any words.’ Psh, whose fault was that? I maintain that I was useless at modern foreign languages because language classes should focus on conversation and communication, not learning to listen to a tape of a stilted robot-esque ‘exchange.’ Top marks to little me for the MCRmy rep, though.
Speaking of fandom… I’m including this next one here because although my fan fiction days were already mostly behind me by this point, I feel like it would have taken a while for me to file it all. I’m not sure who I’m talking to. Future me? The fan fiction police?
Possibly everything said or done concerning fan fiction before the age of 16 should be pardoned, no questions asked.
Year Ten: Media Studies
Year ten was when Danger Days was unleashed unto the world. I immediately set about analysing it for my Media GCSE coursework. A*, my dudes, thank you for asking. I’d have been great at Media at A Level but I didn’t like the teachers, so I did essay subjects and didn’t like myself instead.
Year Eleven: Nothing
I clearly was not effing around with my studies in 2011-12, because I didn’t deem a single piece of work from year eleven funny or ridiculous enough to keep. I can’t remember much of year eleven if I am being honest. I think I took three science subjects at GCSE. I definitely took Religious Studies. Mmm. And maths? I remember a maths exam. What a time that was, sitting in a hall with hundreds of other students, breathing on one another…
Year Twelve: Depths of Hell
These collectively sum up my feelings toward year twelve and my life at the time. I am still furious about the ‘I am a package, and I must be shinier than all the packages’ advice we were given. They had an external careers advisor come in and offer advice. Some of her wisdom was good, but a) she made my friend cry with bolshy questions about our career choices, and b) she used three shampoo bottles to illustrate the jobs market. One shampoo was just a bottle. One had a bow on? And one had all this plastic cellophane and glitter and shit. She wanted us to choose which was the best. They were the same brand, so I thought ‘regular non-cellophane shampoo, because who pays for all that glitter crap that you cut off before you use the shampoo? You don’t, unless you’re shopping for a gift.’ That was the wrong answer, because job candidates are objects that must look better than all the other objects.
It might have been bubble bath, now I think on it. It might have been a different year, too. It’s irritated me for a good six or seven years, though. Fucking terrible advice regardless of the toiletry product. Comb your hair, read up on the job description and make eye contact. That’s all you need to do to make a good impression at an interview, sweeties. Promise. Well, don’t be a shitbag to the interviewer. Maybe make sure you’re qualified for the role, unless you’re a white man who’s good at bullshitting.
Right, next up:
A friend and I did this retelling of The Picture of Dorian Gray. We were quite proud, if I remember correctly. We had the most lovely teacher, who really wanted us to know that she knew the book was Extremely Gay and that she was okay with it. She used the word ‘homoerotic’ in class so often that we started keeping a tally. I think the record was twenty uses in an hour, because she’d done that thing where you get stuck on a word? Sometimes we’d segue into conversations about Ancient Greek wrestling and, if I remember correctly, body oil. A Levels are a ride.
Does anyone else remember when we had Old Labour and New Labour? Do you remember who Ed Miliband is?
Year Thirteen: Own Work
I didn’t keep any school work from year thirteen – I got a bit of a stomach ache just thinking about that time, to be honest. I thought sixth form was The Worst Time in My Life, a Literal House Fire, for ages, but then 2019 and 2020 happened, and now it only seems like a small house fire. Tell you what, I’m owed a good year.
Anyway, here is the time I marked a piece of MCR research I did. I don’t know if any of you will remember the MCRmy Census Project (my first piece of big research!) from circa 2012-2014. I collected a bunch of info from MCR fans, collated it into graphs and commentated on it, printed it out all nicely, then mailed it to Gerard Way. I spelt ‘ethnography’ incorrectly on the front cover. I think I finished it in year thirteen or thereabouts. Some time later, I went through with a red pen and graded myself. I can’t remember why, but it turned out to be good practise for book editing. And my return to academia. I sound way bitchier than my college teacher did in any of her feedback, ha.
Have you kept any of your old school work? Was any of it as ridiculous as the pieces I dragged out?
Look after yourselves,
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