On Tuesday I'd selected a chapter entitled Love, Marriage and Children . Given that I am a highly trained professional I had scanned the chapter in advance, to gauge the appropriateness of the text. It seemed generally OK. There were a couple of references to 'virgins', but I assumed that they would go unnoticed. Virgins are an all-but extinct breed on our council estate. Indeed, the World Wildlife Fund has started a campaign to protect the Newcastle virgin. The problem is, they are just not as cute as the Bengal tiger or as fluffy as the polar bear. So far, sponsorship is low. Of course, the other option open to the WWF is to start a breeding program, but that would be rather counter-productive. It's a dilemma.
That reminds me, there is a rather wicked joke about my town -
Q: Why did the nativity not take place in Newcastle?
A: Because God couldn't find 3 wise men or a virgin.
Hmmmm. So, the text of my Aztec book was OK, but I had made a classic teacher error: I had forgotten to scrutinise the illustrations. Ten minutes into the lesson Jamelia raised her hand.
"Miss Underscore, what is happening in this picture?'
I sashayed over and had a look. It was a reproduction of a traditional Aztec fresco. OH MY GOD! It clearly showed a man and a woman shagging. The two were connected by the longest, bendiest penis I have ever seen. The couple were naked, although the swarthy Aztec rogue was sporting a rakish earring and a very self-satisfied smirk. I was momentarily speechless. What on earth was I going to say? I was aware that the whole class was now staring at me, eagerly awaiting my explanation.
"Is the lady having a baby?"
Jamelia asked, innocently. The picture, was indeed, positioned next to a paragraph entitled 'Childbirth'. Thank you Lord. Suddenly I was inspired.
"Yes, yes. That's it. The lady is giving birth. Have you heard of the umbilical cord? A baby is attached to her mum by a cord. Well. That is what THAT is." I said, pointing decisively at the dizzying, cobra-sized penis.
Amazingly, the class all nodded sagely and unquestioningly accepted my explanation. I briskly moved them on to the next chapter, entitled 'Ritual Sacrifice'. Crisis averted.
I hope I haven't scarred the girls for life. I hope they don't grow up fearing childbirth. After all, who would want to go through a tortuous 12 hour labour, only to give birth to an adult sized baby that looks like Kevin Rowland from Dexy's Midnight Runners?
The World Cup
I watched a bit of the England match last night. I hadn't meant to, I was intending on watching Murder She Wrote on ITV3, but Hetty had fallen asleep on the remote control and I didn't have the heart to move her. I am not a football fan. However, I impressed myself last night with my encyclopedic knowledge of our football players.
'Ah, that's Ashley Cole. Mmmm. That's Lampard. . . '
Then it dawned on me, my fanny-rat recognition was based entirely on OK magazine wedding features and News of the World 'three in a bed' sex scandals. It's not exactly a team to be proud of, is it?
I assumed that Madam Noir, being of the Venetian/lezza persuasion and now living with a woman of the female gender, would not have to tolerate any World Cup nonsense. I thought that must be a fringe benefit of lesbianism - a minge benefit if you will. But, apparently not, Madam Noir is a football widow. She too has relinquished all rights to the remote control to her girlfriend. She too has discovered her fridge is now stacked with lager.