It’s your own time you’re wasting,” I shouted at the top of my already-strained voice. But it was no use. I was lost in a sea of 12-year-olds. It all began at college. “What are you going to do when you graduate?” asked a friend.

Without thinking, I said: “Oh, be a teacher, I suppose.”

“I’m going to be a comedian,” she proclaimed.

Nearly 20 years later, I am a comedian and wouldn’t it be great if she was a teacher. She probably isn’t. Nobody’s a teacher any more - it’s too hard.

I wouldn’t go back. Not even for pound;3,000 tax-free. Except it isn’t even tax-free. But I was a teacher for a while and I like kids, but kids should be beaten with sticks. Big sticks with nails in. I know these things because I taught supply and supply teaching is essentially security work without weapons.

My first job was in Potters Bar. It was a big comprehensive. Not rough. A good starting point, I thought, and the money was fantastic. In fact, it would be great. I mean, I wouldn’t even have to prepare. The absent teacher would obviously leave lesson plans, back-up notes and, more than likely, a contact phone number.

I got a text book.

“I think they might be up to chapter eight,” Mr Memet, the head of science, smiled at me. “Good luck. I’m next door if you need anything.” He smiled again then left me in the fug of the emptying staff room.

I was 23. I was wearing charcoal grey trousers, black shoes, white shirt, red tie and a brand new British Home Stores checked jacket. I looked like one of the sixth formers.

I’d done quite a lot of TIE, so I knew my entrance would be important. I’d be a groovy teacher. A bit Robin Williams-like in Dead Poets Society. I step into the class. “Hey class. Alright, be quiet.” Nothing. Am I invisible? I step up my Liverpool accent. I shout. “Right you lot. Shut up, sit down and let’s get started!”

Some response, some even sit. I pace the front of the class like a wild scouse tiger and stand poised over my desk. A smart casual Ninja. Silence. “My name is Mr Bligh. Open your books. Chapter eight. You sit down.”

“I haven’t got a book, Sir.”

“Can I go to the toilet, Sir?”

“Are you married, Sir?”

“Are you gay, Sir?”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” I scream but it’s no good.

The noise grows. They get bigger. I get smaller. Something very elemental is going on. I haven’t got...“The Power”.

The cacophony is such that Mr Memet from next door comes in. He’s six foot six and clutching an iron bar. No, he’s not. He’s little and a bit fat. Wears glasses.

“Okay, that’s enough.” He doesn’t shout. “Everyone back to your place. Now get out your book. If you haven’t got one find someone to share with.”

He had The Power. He sorted it out for me. Until the next period.

I nearly cried that night. After sleepless hours dreading the morning, I fell asleep. A dream: a silent class faces me. I’m droning on about Oxbow lakes. Suddenly the kids scream at me. “It’s your own time you’re wasting!” I moved on to TEFL.

Simon Bligh performs regularly at the Comedy Store in Manchester and London