The School Trip.

How I get roped into certain things I don't know. I just do. Well, the latest debacle involved a farm, over a hundred little children and a scatty Eastern European. Sounds like something you'd find on Gary Glitters hard drive!!

As Gary reaches for his Johnsons Baby Lotion, I'll carry on. So, it was my mrs sons school trip. They were going to Cefn Mably Farm for the day. Now, I've got to admit, when I found out where they were going I did get a little excited because I love the farm and feeding the animals. Maybe, then, it was when I said "I love the farm, I wish I could go" that started the wheel in motion of my eventual attending.

So anyway, it turns out that my mrs has booked me on the trip with her and her two sons. On the morning in question, we took a stroll over to the school where we were greeted by the headteacher, someone I can only describe as 'Balamorys' Miss Hoolie. On speed. "Hello everybody" she beamed, with stomach churning happiness. I don't think it's possible for anyone to be that happy all the time. Maybe she goes home, listens to death metal and stabs kittens??

Moist with glee, Hoolie-on-Speed told us the master plan was to get on buses outside the school. I was still quite happy until I set foot on the coach and was greeted by a mass of McKenzie tracksuits and Elizabeth Duke gold. The other problem I faced was that the coach was set out into two rows, on of two seats and one of three. Quick thinking, I grabbed my mrs oldest son and sat him next to me in a two seater. I knew my mrs would have instinctively sat in a three seater with her two kids, leaving me the odd one out, either looking like a dirty paedo next to someone else's kid, or, even worse, sat next to the headteacher. To be honest, given a choice I'd have been happier on the sex offenders register!!

One of the first things I noticed (other than I was old enough to be some of the kids grandad) was that no-one calls their kids normal names anymore. There were Shakkilas, Laquandas, there were Nevaehs and Makakaka's. There were Zippy and Bungle's but no George. That's too sensible. I rue the day when there will be no Clives left in the World. Please all rise, for the Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland - Chakademusandpliers Smith. Fuck that.

Secondly, there's no hope for the future when the people moulding our kids for the future, those teaching them and inspiring them, can't fucking count, It took one teacher four attempts to count the children on the coach. Four. Each time she ended up with a different number.

As we aproached the farm, the countryside air got too much for one of the teenage single mums. "Eeurgh, smell that, fucking stinks bruv". Yes, because fresh air smells much worse than crack. Fucking bint.

We arrived at the farm and the kids on the bus were getting excited. It was in the region of 234 degrees and my bollocks were like Niagara Falls. With screaming kids and private parts dripping worse than Annabel Chongs, all I wanted to do was get off the bus. We couldn't. It was time for the farm lady to give a Health and Safety speech. She boarded the bus and started talking with as much gusto as the little black lady in Police Academy. She couldn't be heared over the screaming brats and at one point had to duck a flying Dairylea Dunker. All I managed to pay attention to was that "sticking fingers in animals mouths, and jumping in ponds are considered bad." Righty oh then.

We got into the farm at 10am and bought some feed. We fed animals. At 10.05 the kids were bored and wanted to go the the play area.

As me and my mrs sat down on a table, eating the Quorn pasta my mrs mum failed in disguising as chicken (erm, one tastes of cardboard), about three hundred kids were jumping around in the play area. Then, all of a sudden this crazy accented bird comes in ranting, pointing and the kids and gesturing angrily. Apparently one of the kids had taken animal feed into the play area. This lass was going fucking mental and screaming at the kids to leave. At one point she grabbed a little kid and pushed him out of the play pen. I pretended not to see because a) it wasn't one of my kids and b) the kids will probably end up behind bars at some point so a bit of freedom now wouldn't go amiss.

The play area was off limits. But these were Ely kids and, yo, Ely kids don't give a fuck. As soon as 'Gretel' dissappeared, the kids were back in there. Mistake.

She came storming back into the play area, ablaze with fury. She was livid and was howling at the Ely beans, pulling her hair out as if someone had asked her to wipe out Britains cash defecit rather than work in a farm. This time, the 'Johhny Foreigner' went a step to far as she launched a child infront of it's mother. "You can't touch my child" she screeched at the stressed farmer. The farmers answer - "Yes I can, I've been Police checked". Sorted, I thought. I've been Police checked. Now where was that little fucker who was eyeing up my 'Munch Bunch'. That little twat was having it.