I am indebted to Danny O'Brien, former Bb bass virtusoso with Fulham Brass Band for the following... Fresh from the pens of England's finest 15 year olds - they're meant as metaphors and are from actual GCSE essays: His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a tumble dryer. The little boat drifted gently across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn't. McMurphy fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a paper bag filled with vegetable soup. Her hair glistened in the rain like nose hair after a sneeze. Her eyes were like two brown circles with big black dots in the centre. Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever. He was as tall as a six-foot-three-inch tree. The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease. Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the grassy fields towards each other like two freight trains, one having left York at 6.36pm travelling at 55mph, the other from Peterborough at 4.19pm at a speed of 35mph. The doctor was gone but unnoticed, like the full stop after the Dr. on a Dr Pepper can. John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met. The thunder was an ominous sound, much like the sound of a thin sheet of metal being shaken backstage during the storm scene of a play. The red brick wall was the colour of a brick-red crayon Even in his last years, Granddad had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long that it had rusted shut. The door had been forced shut, as forced as the interview section of Family Fortunes. Shots rang out, as shots are wont to do. The plan was simple, like my brother Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just might work. The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a while. He was lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck, but a real duck that was actually lame. Maybe from stepping on a land mine or something. Her artistic sense was exquisitely refined, like someone who can tell Butter from 'I can't believe it's not Butter'. She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up. It came down the stairs looking very much like something no one had ever seen before. The knife was as sharp as the tone used by Glenda Jackson MP in her first several points of parliamentary procedure made to Robin Cook MP, the House of Commons, in the House Judiciary Committee hearings on the suspension of Keith Vaz MP. The ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a lamppost. The revelation that his marriage had disintegrated because of his wife's infidelity came as a right shock, like a surcharge at a formerly surcharge-free cashpoint. The dandelion swayed in the gentle breeze like an oscillating electric fan set on medium. It was a working class tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with their power tools. He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a dustcart reversing. She was as easy as the Daily Star crossword. She grew on him like she was a colony of E. coli and he was room-temperature British beef. She walked into my office like a centipede with 98 missing legs. Her voice had that tense, grating quality, like a first-generation thermal paper fax machine that needed a band tightening.