Rats And Mice In One's Hice

© 2013 David Jasmin-Green

English Language A level paper two, written composition, 2013.

Essay no.1) Rats and mice in one's hice are rather nice.

The above essay subject has been selected following the tremendous success of last year's most popular titles in inner city schools, 'Why cockroaches and bedbugs are utterly fantastic', 'Santa Claus is a paedo - discuss' and 'Oh bollocks, our Freddy is dying of dysentery'. If you think this year's first essay is an exciting prospect for budding young writers to get their heads around wait until you see number two, 'Mom and dad won't be able to afford to slop-feed us for much longer on reduced, horse flavoured supermarket crap because of the introduction of the bedroom tax' – it's an absolute cracker!

Write an essay of at least eight hundred words explaining why rats and mice in one's hice are rather nice (time allowing write considerably more, because more is invariably better and writing more than eight hundred measly words might well earn you extra marks – and God knows, you'll need every mark you can get, you dozy fucks).

Preferably write from your own experience, because I'm a sadistic old bastard and the thought of innumerable half-starved wretches clothed in rags, huddling around candle stubs in the dead of winter and living in abject poverty gives me a stiffie like a baby's arm holding a tangerine. Suffer, peasants, suffer, you scabrous, flea-bitten scum-suckers while I ponce around in my top of the range Porsche, pick up the kids (that my blind cousin agreed to father because I married my dear wife Helga, who looks like a warthog that's been in a serious car crash, for her money rather than her looks) from their extortionately expensive private school in a stretch Rolls Royce Silver Shadow with its own bar and swimming pool and we all live happily ever after in a magnificent fifty five room mansion with the heating turned up full blast and all the windows open. I suppose you could resort to a fictional account if you're a jumped-up fucker from a low-bred family that has just enough money to scrape by on and your parents aren't alcoholics or crack whores so your experience of living in filthy, vermin infested hovels is lacking, but a twisted old devil like me will immediately know that you're lying, and you'll get a big, fat D.

You may, if you wish, include other creatures beside rats and mice in your composition as long as they are approved by the examination board, of which I am the head, and I rule with an iron fist, I'm telling you. I, Peter Long Dead Opossum Kurten, senior examiner of the West Midlands Examination Board's English Language Teaching Programme and a direct descendant of the Peter Kurten, the Dusseldorf vampire (and I don't care who knows it) am particularly fond of stories about toy poodles dancing on hot plates, especially if they're dyed pink and decked in ribbons, and performing crabs holding canes and wearing top hats. I do not, however, approve of stories about bush babies - the sly, deceptively sweet looking little bastards frighten the living shit out of me, I guess it's something about their huge, I can see into the depths of your irredeemably tainted soul eyes, and as far as I'm concerned they should be shot on sight. No, on second thoughts shooting is too bloody good for them.

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Footnote:- Since this paper was printed Peter Long Dead Opossum Kurten (his mother called him that because he was born with an hereditary BO problem and for reasons that no medical professional can explain he smells like a long dead opossum), former senior examiner of the West Midlands Examination Board's English Language Teaching Programme and a direct descendant of the Peter Kurten, the Dusseldorf vampire (and he doesn't care who knows it) has been sectioned indefinitely under the Mental Health Act and sent to Broadmoor – Ha! Justice at last! - for unspeakably sadistic acts against an unspecified number of innocent bush babies, which is a crying shame because I quite like the little chaps. He also had a giant panda, half a dozen baby mountain gorillas and several hundred dressed swans in his walk-in freezer, but the Kurten family are blood relatives of Heinrich Himmler and the British monarchy, so we can eat what we bloody well like.....

As a result of my father's incurable insanity, if you find this year's first essay title a little too close to the truth or strange and disturbing in any way, shape or form I, Peter Unwashed Lebanese Prostitute's Fragrant Gusset Kurten, the new senior examiner of the West Midlands Examination Board's English Language Teaching Programme and a direct descendant of the Peter Kurten, the Dusseldorf vampire (and I do care who knows that, so kindly keep it quiet), give my explicit permission for students (especially those residing in poky, mildewed council houses) to write nice escapist stories about acrobatic gender confused llamas wearing colourful sequin spangled frocks, donkeys that can play the ukelele, bands of gibbons trained to do the hokey-cokey or cute Thomson's gazelle proficient at Shirley Temple impersonations.

To tell the truth you can write about whatever animals you like, it doesn't really matter because no one is likely to actually read your lame, sub-working class drivel. Generally speaking our examiners mark papers from deprived areas randomly, aiming of course towards the lower end of the scale. Unless, of course, your dad's a gangster, a banker, a bad-ass drug dealer or similar arch criminal and he promises them a hefty backhander, but shhh! mum's the word, the less said about that the better.

Everything will turn out fine and dandy as long as you make no mention of baa-lambs, because I detest the stupid looking wooly fuckers. My grandmother was part sheep (or was it sheep dog? I've clean forgotten) and she was a right vicious bitch, she used to kick me in the kidneys and beat me on the bare bot-bot with a large cured halibut for pissing on her grass or looking at her in a funny way. Don't write about Cavalier King Charles spaniels either, the deformed, pop-eyed abominations, excepting my beloved Poochy, of course. And steer well clear of the subject of moles, because they've made a laughing stock of my bowling green; I can't show my face at the country club without being sniggered at by the Farquar- frigging-Smythes, who employ the last surviving Patagonian Mole catcher, and they refuse to rent him out. I hate moles, the pointy-faced burrowing little shits, with a vengeance.....

Why are you looking across the examination room to see what Nigel Roll Me Over In The Clover Jackson thinks, Portlock? He's lying about being a proper slag, he's a bloody virgin if the truth's known. I mean look at him, girls, boys, anyone - would you roger the dopey, cock-eyed git or allow him to roger you? Would you buy a burger and fries if he was working behind the counter at Mc-sodding-Donalds and the manager hadn't insisted on him wearing a bio-hazard suit? Would you even touch the diseased, bloated, turbot faced prannet? I thought not. Nigel Jackson eats his own poo, everybody knows that, so don't smell his breath whatever you do. Because he's such a repellent boy the fact that he's considered by his teachers to be a bit of a clever dick is of no consequence, and I'll personally ensure that he gets an F. Now stop wasting time and get writing, you sweaty, bleating, malnourished, pimply faced, cock-smoking tit-bags!