On your own, Matilda.
Where's your friend Lavender, then?
I'm not sure.
I hope she's not getting up to any mischief, or she'll end up in the chokie.
She's probably just helping Miss Honey in the classroom.
I hear you've got the trunchbull this afternoon.
We have.
You'll probably both end up in the chokie.
Oh, look, here comes Lavender with a smirk all over her face.
Looks to me as if she's been up to no good at all.
See ya.
Lavender, where have you been?
Sorting out the trunchbull.
What do you mean?
We're in for a good afternoon.
Lavender, what have you done?
I've put a newt in her water jug.
A newt?
I smuggled it in in my pencil case this morning.
Don't you think that was a brilliant idea?
I'm not at all sure that it was.
But it's too late now to do anything about it.
Prepare for possibly the worst afternoon of your life.
Good afternoon, children.
Good afternoon, Miss Trenchball.
Well, well, well.
What a bunch of nauseating little warts you are.
It makes me vomit to think that I'm going to have to put up with a load of garbage, like you in my school for the next six years.
Now, put your hands out in front of you so I can see if they're clean.
What's your name?
Nigel what?
Hicks.
Nigel Hicks what?
Just Nigel Hicks.
What is my name?
Miss Trunchbull.
Then use it when you address me.
So, let's try again.
What's your name?
Nigel Hicks, Miss Trunchbull.
Your hands are filthy, Nigel Hicks.
When did you last wash them?
Um, that's rather difficult to remember exactly.
It could have been yesterday, or it could have been the day before.
I knew it!
I knew as soon as I saw you that you were nothing but a piece of filth.
What's your father's job, a sewage worker?
He's a doctor, and a jolly good one.
He says we're also covered with bugs anyway, that a bit of extra dirt never hurts anyone.
Well, I'm glad he's not my doctor.
And why, might I ask, do you have a baked bean on the front of your shirt?
We had baked beans for lunch, Miss.
Oh, and do you usually put your lunch on the front of your shirt?
Is that what this famous doctor of a father has taught you?
You are disgusting.
Let's see if you're better at spelling than you are at personal hygiene.
Go and stand in the corner on one leg with your face to the wall.
But, Miss Trunchbull... Don't argue with me.
Now then, spell right.
Which one?
The one with the pen, you little fool.
W-R-I-T-E.
Miss Honey taught us to spell a very long word yesterday.
Oh, and what word was that?
Difficulty.
You're not supposed to learn long words like that until you're at least eight or nine.
And don't try to tell me everybody in the class can spell that word.
You are lying to me, Nigel.
Test someone.
You.
What's your name?
Lavender.
Lavender what?
Lavender, Miss Trunchbull.
Spell difficulty, Lavender.
D-I-F-F-I-C-U-L-T-Y.
Miss Trunchbull.
And I suppose Miss Honey wasted the whole of one lesson teaching you to spell that one single word.
Oh, no.
Miss Honey teaches us lots of words in just three minutes.
Oh, and what, may I ask, is this magic method?
Miss Honey gives us a little song about each word and we all sing it together.
Would you like to hear the song about difficulty?
I should be fascinated.
Mrs D, Mrs I, Mrs F, F, I, Mrs C, Mrs U, Mrs L, T, Y. Perfectly ridiculous.
Cut out the poetry in future, Miss Honey.
But it does teach them some of the harder words.
Don't argue with me.
I shall now test you on multiplication tables to see if Miss Honey has taught you anything at all in that direction.
You!
Stand up.
What's your name?
Rupert.
Rupert what?
Rupert, Mr. Runchbull.
Well, Rupert.
What is two sevens?
Sixteen.
Sixteen, indeed.
Eighteen.
Two sevens are eighteen, not sixteen.
You ignorant little slug.
You witless weed.
You empty-headed hamster.
You stupid glob of glue.
Ouch.
Please don't pull my hair.
Pull your hair?
I'm not just going to pull your hair, you little squirt.
I'm going to lift you right up by it, like this.
Ow!
Two sevens of fourteen.
Two sevens of fourteen?
I am not letting you go till you say it.
Miss Trunchbull, please let him down.
You're hurting him.
All his hair might come out.
And well it might if he doesn't stop wriggling.
Keep still, you squirming worm.
Say it.
Say two sevens of fourteen and I'll let you go.
Two sevens of fourteen?
Get up. and stop snivelling.
Let that be a lesson to all of you.
That's the way to make them learn, Miss Honey.
You've got to hammer it into them.
You could do them permanent damage, Miss Transport.
Oh, I have?
I'm quite sure I have.
Miss Transport!
Shut up, Miss Honey.
You're as wet as any of them.
When you've been teaching for as long as I have, you'll realise that it's no good at all being kind to children.
Read Nicholas Nickleby, Miss Honey, by Mr. Dickens.
Read about Mr. Wackford Squares, the admirable headmaster of Do the Boys Whole.
He knew how to handle the little brutes, didn't he?
He kept their backside so warm you could have fried eggs and bacon on them.
A fine book.
But I don't suppose this bunch of morons we've got here will ever read it.
Because by the look of them, they are never going to learn to read anything.
