Mr Butcher, English Teacher. Incredible bloke. Could spend the whole lesson going off on what appeared to be tangents, talking about interesting/highly destructive stuff he got up to as a kid (a lot of parallels with Scaryduck but with less "inna hedge") and yet nevertheless we all somehow got a working knowledge of the books, plays and poetry on the syllabus. The respect we had for him was awesome. I particularly remember a time when all the English teachers had gone to the funeral of a deceased colleague. Our class was meant to have a supply teacher but there'd been a cockup somewhere along the line and we were alone in the classroom. We all sat down and got on with our work - impressive for any GCSE class, but particularly for a mixed-ability group in a grotty comp. After 45 minutes of the 55-minute session, we decided we'd better find a teacher to sign the register. What we found was one of the deputy heads, failing to control the class next door. Gobsmacked doesn't even begin to cover it. He'd thought our room was empty.