Modernity. A word which, no matter how much they persistently claim to have achieved, will never spring to mind when thinking about the BRA sixth form centre. Why? It just flipping isn't.
Apparently, they seem to think that if they reiterate their point often enough, we'll all be brainwashed into thinking that it's 'a top class facility'. I think they have a point. I mean, what could be more top class than a wobbly table that you have to balance with a stray chess piece which you find lying around the floor somewhere? What could be more luxurious than unexpectedly falling through the springless cushion of a chair that's possibly more broken than the Irish economy? And, once you've paid a pound for a cup of hot chocolate that actually mildly resembles a cup of finely sifted mud and froth that is virtually tasteless until you reach the wad of sediment lining the bottom of the cup, you'll feel so regal that after using the MIDDLE SIXTH ONLY! toilets, you'd half expect the queen to come in and wipe your backside for you, whilst she weeps tears of joy at the sheer privilege of it all. Oh, and you'd look down on her while she was doing it.
But sadly, I've made it sound better than it really is. It's disappointing, the way they present it to us, and the reality in comparison. It's like they've promised to give us a chocolate bar, but in actual fact, we've recieved a thinly veiled lump of excrement. However, it's a thinly veiled lump of excrement that we're apparently supposed to keep highly polished and fragrantly scented, in order to keep ourselves sufficiently busy enough to not realise it's a load of crap. Never mind the broken furniture, the widely scattered chess pieces and the occasional stray cup of Oh Dear Goodness What Is That, what would the peasants think of us if they saw this litter?
As it turns out, it's not the peasants we have to worry about (although it is jolly good fun to take potshots at them with our hunting rifles of privilege, eh what?). No, as it turns out, what you really have to watch out for is Albert Creighton. Normally he's calm. Serene, even. However, if even so much as a waft of litter reaches his finely tuned nostrils, a nuclear reaction begins in his mind, bottles up and eventually bursts out in a massive explosion of famine, war, pestilence, and generally not being able to sleep because the sixth form centre is dirty. Litter makes him an angry, angry man, kids. In fact, if a newborn baby seal dropped a bottle cap in front of his children, he'd probably waste no time in pulling out a handgun, shooting it fourteen times in the head and dropping its barely breathing carcass down a disused well for being a bad influence.
And don't even think about saying the cleaners will clean it up. That is not their job. No, contrary to popular belief, they are actually paid to stand around, smoke, and occasionally backhand first years for kicks.
And if you don't like it, you can go somewhere else.
