I had never been a bad student, in fact quite the opposite. My grades had always been high, I sat at the front of the class because I was cool and teachers smiled when they saw me in the corridor. I was predicted to do equally well at A Level (they weren't to know) so when on one eagerly awaited parents evening the afore mentioned arse wipe laid into me it came as quite a shock. My parents were already aware of my dislike for the man, but I imagine they had assumed it was merely a case of me over reacting. After all, who does like their teachers? But this night explained to them just why I felt the way I did.
After making us wait for over half an hour past our selected time slot, we were finally seated. Everyone was smiling, at first. My proud parents, expecting amazing feedback on their wonderful first born, my other graphics teacher who was Welsh and so even when he wasn't happy; he sounded it, and Mr S Northy. His grin stretched from ear to ear, forcing his sideburns to create a furry frame around his smug little face.
20 minutes later and no-one was smiling anymore. My dad nearly punched Northy after he had said the words, "Ash shows a clear lack of ability in anything he tries to do," despite me being sat right there (he never once addressed me during the process) and the millionth utterance of the line, "I used to work in business, you know," as if that somehow made him a better person that the rest of us. My Dad, who still did work in business, bluntly refused to shake his hand and called him, quite politely I thought, "An incredibly arrogant, self obsessed man," and with that we went on our merry way to see my art teachers, who were a much friendlier bunch and told me I was lovely.
After that Stu and I's relationship was always going to be a difficult affair. The very next day he asked us to write down, in private, what we thought of the course. He promised us that whatever we wrote would be completely confidential, and I quote, "No-one will be judged for what they say." I wrote down the following words,
"I feel this lesson may be a bit of a waste of time, given our impending coursework deadlines. Would the time not be better spent finishing off our projects?"
I thought that was fairly diplomatic. Apparently not, nor was it confidential.
"Ashley, did you write this?"
"What?"
"GET OUT OF MY CLASSROOM."
I got a small round of applause as I stood up to leave, an act which was continued when I met up with my classmates later on. It felt quite nice, I was tempted to do it again. I went back to see Stuart and he informed me I had been very disrespectful the night before which was why he had sent me out just then. I think I laughed. The tit.
Anyway, years have passed since then. He probably still tells people he used to work in business and those people still probably can't stand his hair growth, but I got over it. I moved on. At least I thought I had...until now....
We are required to hang our work in A3 clear plastic wallets for our final year show. These can be quite expensive, but fortunately I remembered that I had used some A3 clear plastic wallets to hand in my final coursework for A Level graphics. Winner. That'd save me a few invaluable pounds.
I dug them out.
To my horror I saw that not only had they all been torn, but they also had red marker pen written all over them to indicate my marks. I spent hours trying to fix them up, clearing off the pen, taping up the tears, only to figure out that my work should probably look better than that.
Today I spent 8 quid on some more.
I also brought bulldog clips, for 24 quid.
Mr Stuart Northy ruined my time at A Level.
His presence still bloody lingers.