Jim plucked an essay from the teetering pile on the floor beside his desk and began to read.
“I hate my lecturer. The way he stands there, smug about the fact he’s rich and old and can’t get it up. Anyway I decided to have some fun. I invited the lecturer (let’s call him Tim, though that isn’t his real name) to my house. I live in a scuzzy estate, the sort that privileged prick has probably never noticed as he cabs it to the Ivy. When he knocks on the door (we don’t have buzzers round our way, JTim!) I’m wearing a black rubber basque, rubber stockings and boots. Being a perve who digs young girls Tim likes my outfit and lets me tie him to the bed. Once he’s naked and helpless I roll in the hostess trolley. As I pull away the sheet to reveal a wide array of torture implements. Tim’s eyes bulge with terror. I pick up the electrified bull-clamps. Attaching-“
Jim stopped reading and mopped his brow. Flipping the 32-page assignment over (about ten thousand words, at a guess) he wrote:
“I’m sorry, but I’m unable to see how this relates to the assignment, namely: themes and theories in the works of Truffaut. F.”