B*stard is a twisted version of Adrian Mole and Bridget Jones - it charts the last year of Sebastian Murphy's time at Sixth Form. He doesn't fit in much, but he never has, so that's fine by him. Or so he says... Join him on his hilarious quest for emancipation from education, Jolly Peckers, social acceptance and his boss' breath... 'Most eighteen year olds would kill to be in the upper echelons of the Sixth Form social strata, but no. Not I. You know why? Because most of the people I go to Sixth Form with are complete mong-gloids. The Cool Clan can lick my left one, the God Squad can JESUS OFF for all I care and the Drifters really ought to think more about using a bar of soap than obsessing about serious music, which is MOANY and DULL and not becoming of one of my disco parties for one. Oh no. Karl Marx (peace be upon him) harped on about a revolution, which I'm getting bored of waiting for, quite frankly. Until it happens, I'm trapped here. But that's okay - I have one academic year to go: an academic year where I will commit my observations to paper, for posterity. That way, when the revolution comes, I will be able to reminisce about how right I was... Until this time finally gets its rump in gear, I shall impatiently wait. I shall attend Sixth Form where I will smile - okay, grimace - nod and answer to my pithy nickname. It's not particularly endearing. At school, I'm not Sebby, Sebs or even Sebastian. Oh no. On my first day in year seven I was Christened Sebastard, but now I'm just referred to - wholesale - as Bastard. Even by some of the teachers. Who are complete bastards, especially Chip Pan Charlie, the Head of Sixth Form. The place is a shissen-holen. Hopefully, that's German for Shit Hole but I'm not entirely sure. I gave German up in Year Nine because the subject was boring, overly gutteral and the teacher was rumoured to have skid marks. Vile. There should be a law against it, don't you think? When I'm not at school, I will (un)happily take the blame from my parents for all the stuff my brother Harry does and I'll work at ShitSave and the pub where I'll try not to let my Marxist tendencies get the better of me, although I can't promise. I buy the Socialist Worker, for God's sake. I might not read it, but I buy it all the same...'