6 Lessons Left.
4 Free Periods.
2 Lunchtimes.
NO HOMEWORK EVER.


This is what it is all about! Overall I can't decide whether I am glad to leave. Obviously it would be weird to not see the people I've seen everyday for the last 7 years, but to be honest that isn't all round a bad thing. No more Mr. Thompson and his "Lewis, make your mother proud, tuck you shirt in." No more sexual harassment from Glover, but at the same time no more dancing lessons from Malyszko. No more hanging out with the lads every break and lunch time, no more free periods down the cafe or round Dareus' house. But, now I will start to earn more money, have free time when not at work where I wont have to worry about homework, maybe have time to play the guitair I bought, and heaven forbid, try and improve muy social life. Which may be difficult if most of the people I know leave for far away Universities.

Anyways, I've decided to whack together a list of my memories of the years I've spent at Langley, in what I call

"The List Of My Memories Of The Years I've Spent At Langley Extravaganza."

Year 7: Seems like a lifetime away now, but I remember that I had long blonde hair, in the timeless bowl style (one adopted and adapted by the 'Chard in homage to me). My first form tutor was Mr. Finch, a hard nosed Scottish bastard who supported Chelsea. Of the people in my first from, the ones who I still talk to now are Akin, Gary, Andrew, David and Dan. Lessons wise, the only thing I can really remeber is having ICT first thing on a Monday with Mcgregor, who used to call me a genius.

Year 8: Always going to be the least memorable year at the school, with nothing important happening. I think we went to Youlgrave in this year, which was a very decent trip and included a day at Alton Towers. There was the infamous cycling trip as well, where pretty much everyone could of course ride a bike by this age. Some people where of course just attached to the back of someone else's bike and just dragged along. And they still manages to fall off. A beatiful moment.

Year 9: This year was most memorable for the fact i was promoted to set 1 in maths, and therefore had to endure Mr.'Wacko Jacko' Jacubovic, the strictist, yet at the same time funniest teacher in the world. One time, I was rewarded for being late to one of his lessons, as everybody who turned up on time was held back during lunch for not queing up in silence, alphabetical order and facing the front. If you yawned, he would come out with such classics as "Errr..Dipple, I don't want to see a huge Dipple shaped Polo Mint every time I look up," Or "Errrr..O'Conner, If I wanted a target for my chalk throwing practice I will ask you." Of course, he's high pitched yorkshire accent also helped increase the comedy of the man.

Year 10: A new form, with Mr. Bailey, the art teacher, or lazy fuckwits as they are known in gruops. In this form, my group included Dave Chandler, (T)Eddy, Ashley and Matt Sykes, who has now been missing for over year. If you have him, maybe he is living under you stair, tell him to give me my fucking DVDs back. Of course, it is in this form that I was christened 'Wendy' by Matt and Ed, who clearly see nothing but feminine beauty in me. What sort of job is it to watch children paint pwitty pwictures ffs. Anyway, this year is the year I started both Business and Media Studies, two of the three subjects I will have A Levels in at the end of this year. This is where the round Business teacher known as Mr. Thompson first 'learnt' 'my' 'name'. Every week I would tell him "It's Louis (loo EE) sir, not Lewis (loo WIS)." And every week he would still call me Lewis. Stupid fat man.

Year 11: Year of the GCSEs. Whacked out some A's and B's and C's. Pretty happy with the return, but of course they mean nothing now. Of course, the most impotant thing to come out of this year was the MASSSSSSSIVE summer holiday at the end of it which rocked my shocks (Thats right, shocks). Best time ever, I'm sure you will agree.

Year 12: Sixth form starts and naturally I start to become lazy. What with film studies now being taken, we had the awesome film trips, to see such master pieces as The Machurian Candidate which was a most 'good' piece of film making, but fuck it, we got pizza hut before hand anyway. And of course, we all went to New York, which would make up for any number of crap films. The free periods that we now enjoyed were spent in the hall and ivolved muchos pissing about. The battle for the Astroturf rages on with the hockey Team and their all powerful leader Naismith, a battle which spanned over a year and a half but one that we have won! Naturally I wouldn't want to rub his face in it, just because he has been overthrown by a sport that actually means something to some people, one that you could spend your life involved with without wasting it. You arse.

Year 13: The last ever year, which is going to finish with a bang in the A Level exams which loom meancingly round the corner, like a peadohpile at mothercare. This year Glover has turned on me in business, Butterworth proved his worth as a media mentor and Malyszko kept up his awesome form as an all round entertainer in the David Brent stylie. The kebab shop and Sema's Cafe have become frquented by my fine self and members of my hip hop posse, where many a fry up and pepsi have been enjoyed. I made a film, I constucted an auteur project and become one of the astroturf's most prolific strikers. I've achieved nothing yet though.

So there it is, the last seven years of my life summed up in 778 words, which would suggest that I'm not really leaving much behind, but of course I will miss aspects of the school. However, a new begining is just that, and who knows what the next few years holds for me. I don't, and nor does that guy over there, I asked him.

Spread this shit around, It would be good to see what sort of scope of people from Langley read this, it would be great if you leave a comment saying your name and how you meet me at school. Cheers.

Here's a leaving present for y'all. Jonathon Ross' entrance scenes are always classic, but this one doesn't take the biscuit, it takes the pissing jaffa cake.