Christ, we’re ugly!
It’s only when you go to a parent-teacher meeting that you realise what a rough-looking bunch we Irish really are. It’s a miracle any of these people became parents, but I suppose it just goes to show what a wonderful thing alcohol is.
I fucking hate parent-teacher meetings. They’re like speed-dating for gobshites. Smug, self-important, condescending, neurotic gobshites, and that’s just the parents. Earnest, frowning, forward-leaning young teachers with big teeth and expensive haircuts.
Hmmmm. I see. Yes. Hmmm.
Matronly, middle-age-spreading language teachers, longing with rage for that lost year in France and suppressing a secret drink-urge.
Hello there Mrs Feck-Arse. Let’s see now. Yes indeed, I suppose you’d be the parent of that little cretin, Britney. I can tell by your big fuckin monkey head. Jesus I’d murder a G&T.
Shuffling fathers and all-business mothers.
Did you catch the geography teacher? Did you? Did you?
I don’t know. Was he the one with the wooden eye?
No, ya blind fucker. The one with the glass leg. Now I know why our Tommy is so fuckin stupid.
Really? So you know who the father is, do ya?
Fuck you. Wait till I get you home. Oh hello, Mr Murphy!
We all hate it. Teachers, parents, students. I used to pass the time by trying to imagine everyone naked, but that brought on a lot of vomiting and stares of contempt from the other parents, so I had to develop a new strategy.
What I do now is this. I walk right to the head of the queue where all the parents are sitting obediently, waiting for the call. Then I catch the teacher’s eye and I shout, Hey!! Could try harder, right?
Teacher nods. I scratch him off my list and move on to the next one.
Parent-teacher meetings? Me? Five minutes!