When it came to the anger management classes, Deano thought he had it sussed. In his last session, he kicked through the doors, eyes popping and fizzing like inflatable light bulbs. Deano was bloody furious! Spewing words out like a fleshy sick gun. Words Like, Flipping twerp!

Git!

Swine!

Bastard!

Rotter!

And maybe worst of all, twats!

Barking such demonic filth at individual class members sent him crimson, his spit drenched chin shone (a la Rhubarb and custard).

Meanwhile the class slid from their chairs, coughing lunch out of their holes. The Laughter shook them in the room like a child shaking a box of mewing kittens.

The sound of laughter only made it worse for poor old Deano. Through his fingers, he looked at what he’d created. Deano slumped to his knees, cried into his hands and screamed, “I am so angry!”

Then there was a round off-beat clapping from the darkened corners of the room.

The Class was over.