AN: Writing this for a writing competition. This is based on my own experiences, though no names are used, and the name of my school and area have been omitted. While I do not mean to be offensive, I am trying to emphasize issues in the London press at the moment, such as the lack of manners in schools, lack of English spoken in classrooms as for many now, it is a second language, underachievement and anorexia/obesity. If you find any of it rude, tell me and I will edit it instantly as I have no desire to be rude. Constructive criticism is appreciated immensely as I would like a good mark for this.

Yes, I am one of those unpopular girls. I am a flat chested size ten with a small circle of friends. I have never been clubbing. I have never been partying. I have never held hands with a boy. I am not gay. So I'm a sad case. So what? If this sounds like you, DON'T CARE! Just tell them to fuck off because you'll end up being better than those losers obsessed with their figures-

Anyway, on with the essay.

My Experience of School Life

Having now been a pupil at a supposedly upper-class, private girl's school in London for three years, I feel that I must shatter any misconceptions about single-sex, fee-paying schools where the pupils are predominantly white and everyone speaks English. Going to such a school does not keep you out of the clutches of boys, or "evil sex seeking fiends from hell", as one person I know describes them. You do NOT get instantly better results. Every third word is still a swearword. You either eat nothing but junk food or are on a permanent diet – and yes, the school lettuce still has flies in it somewhere. Chavs still populate the halls. There are still the too-posh-to-wash girls and the life-is-a-party crew. Individuality is still a crime.

NB: For Americans and other foreigners, who do not know what a "chav" is, I quote dictionary dot com: "the lower class; uneducated and ignorant people". This does not even begin to cover it. Chavs only wear velour tracksuits which retail at £300, trainers that are not meant for running, and hooped gold earrings. They sport 10+ piercings, gold jewellery, extensions, manicured nails and badly dyed hair. Every sentence ends with "izzit!" or "whatevs". They call their "babes" their "sexes". They lose their virginity at twelve and type "lyk dis". Basically, search "chav" online, and you'll get it. Anyway, this is not in the original essay, so without further ado-

Most think that at private schools, everyone are geniuses. They always do their homework, eat their greens, love maths and will become rocket scientists. In my school, there is a rule in life that everything taught in school must be considered boring. If you want to fit in, you hate maths, you adore sport – but of course, your favourite subject remains "lunch", computers are only good for IMing and you detest French because that nasty Madame gave you another nought- but what does it really matter when everywhere else speaks English, anyway?

When one is quizzed what their career choices are, "scientist", "mathematician", "writer" or anything with brains are automatically out. Acceptable professions once one has scraped the mandatory eight GCSEs required to leave school include "footballer's wife", "model", "girlfriend", or for the particularly adventurous student, "fashion designer". Who cares if you want to do more than eight GCSEs? Why the extra work? However, my chosen career of "working very little and getting paid a helluva lot" merely earned me sidelong stares and a few sniggers, as well as it eventually ending up on my application form for a new school. Oh, the shame.

Another set of rules are based around, of course, uniform. Upon entering school for the first time, one is to be questioned why they are wearing a tent around their – unshaven – legs, and why one is wearing socks, with "socks" being pronounced along the same lines as "fur" or "condoms". Naturally, you can't get anything right when you come in the next day wearing tights – your thick, opaque, navy tights are of course totally wrong for your "curvy" legs, with the point being emphasized by stick thin girls all wearing tan coloured pantyhose. The sense of euphoria attained when you find that your skirt is the "correct" length – rolled up so much you look like you've got a tube around your stomach – immediately sinks down into your rounded stomach when one of the girls point out that you are wearing clumpy shoes while pointing her own dainty feet in her Valentino flats. The offending shoes are soon removed to be replaced by Topshop shoes that slide off your flat feet whenever you climb a step and drain your pocket money for the next month – but after all, one must suffer for their beauty. Cool girls can only have pretty friends. It drags down your social status to hang out with freaks who think eyelash curlers are instruments of medieval torture and not a fashion essential.

One must always come into school looking like they're just about to leave it, on their way to yet another glamorous nightclub. This means you must come into school with your hair straightened – even if it is admittedly scant, like mine – and perfect makeup at all times. Who cares if the teachers catch you? Of course, you can always reapply it. One "cool" girl came up to me in Year 7 with the best intentions, before telling me not to wear my glasses because I had look perfect if I wanted to eat lunch with her. I often wondered whether I still looked perfect when I walked into the science block and had a bruise on my cheek for the next week and a bit. And of course, one must tame their bushy eyebrows, and their man's moustache. I remember being asked by one well-meaning classmate why I had a moutsache, only for me to tell her them that I was a cross-dressing punk, entering a girl's school to catch a glimpse of the fitter specimens among us while they change for sport. X then asked me if I was a "lesbo" – I learnt very quickly that if you don't fancy the gorgeous Biology tech, you are automatically gay – a lesson that I learned the hard way. However, telling them I was a man didn't get me many points in their book. I recommend avoiding it where possible, and if you just can't resist, prepare to stand several years' worth of taunting, insults and loneliness as well as ostracisation from every party ever held at Random Girl's School, London and all the surrounding schools in the area. I still am at home every night without fail – and I've been going to this school for three years now.

Every school has an unwritten code of conduct, and this is no different among the girls at any school worldwide. One must never call any "cool" girl a slut, no matter how many times she slept with that other girl's boyfriend. Free periods? Don't you dare do your GCSE coursework when there's glamour to be read and parties to organise! Never been to a party? Never been clubbing? Got no friends? I seem to fit into all these categories and so am automatically classed as a loser. But then again, I have learnt not to care, which is what you must do if you wish to get good grades and not to have sold your soul by the age of thirteen. So you get another text to the effect of "do not mention we saw u 2day on da high strt cos its embarasing 2 b cn wiv u" – Do not mention we saw you today on the High Street because it's embarrassing to be seen with you, to the literate reader. So what? Who cares if you're deemed embarrassing and don't use chatspeak? So what if you're not a perfect size four? So what if you're "emo" and "depressed"? Don't care! Show them when you're famous and they're on the dole with nine kids and being done for smoking pot! You only go to school for fourteen years of your life, don't you?

Who am I kidding?