Ah, Macbeth. The Scottish play. A tale of ambition, madness, and betrayal. Also, apparently, a tale that my Year 11 English class has decided to take, shred into confetti, and set on fire. Today was the dreaded Act III Scene 1 Dramatic Reading, an event I’d been putting off for as long as possible because deep down, I knew—I knew—it would be an unmitigated disaster.

It began, as these things always do, with the distribution of roles. "Can I be Macbeth?" "Do I have to be Lady Macbeth? She’s, like, old." "What’s a Banquo, Miss?" I assigned parts as fairly as I could, which, in their eyes, is never fair at all. Of course, Kyle got Macbeth because he can’t string three words together without mumbling, and naturally, Shannon got Lady Macbeth because she declared, "I’m good at being evil." Terrifyingly accurate.

We began. Or rather, they began. Kyle’s Macbeth stumbled through his first lines with all the charisma of a soggy Weetbix. Shannon, on the other hand, delivered Lady Macbeth’s lines with such venom I briefly considered calling the school counsellor. Meanwhile, the rest of the class took “active listening” as an opportunity to scroll Instagram under the table or doodle on their books or neighbour’s arm. Because nothing says "Shakespeare" like a poorly drawn Among Us character.

Banquo’s ghost entered the scene. Or he would have, had the student playing him not forgotten it was his turn. "Oh, is it me? Sorry, Miss." Yes, Brayden. It is you. It has always been you. The ghost of my patience haunts this classroom more effectively than Banquo ever could. When we finally got Brayden to mutter his lines, he somehow managed to turn "Thou canst not say I did it" into "Thou can not do it," which… isn’t even close. I opened my mouth to correct him but realised it didn’t matter. The ship of linguistic accuracy had sailed, sunk, and been eaten by the kraken.

The massacre continued. Shannon, taking her role as Lady Macbeth far too seriously, decided to improvise. "Macbeth, you’re such a loser, man," she hissed, breaking character so violently I swear I heard Shakespeare roll over in his grave. Kyle responded by shrugging and mumbling, "Whatever," which, while out of context, felt weirdly appropriate for Macbeth’s descent into apathy. In the background, two students had started sword-fighting with their rulers. I confiscated both and made a mental note to invest in a lockable drawer for my desk. Across the room, someone sneezed loudly and proclaimed, "That’s my ghost impression, Miss!" Banquo would be proud.

Lady Macbeth’s infamous "Out, damned spot!" speech—a moment of psychological torment, guilt, and raw emotion—was delivered as follows: "Out, spot! Like, seriously, I can’t deal with you right now." I stared at Shannon. She stared back, unrepentant. Somewhere in the distance, a crow cawed, probably mourning the death of high art.

The reading finally came to an end, not with a bang but with a whimper. I’d been planning to discuss the themes of ambition and morality, but it felt pointless after what had just transpired. Instead, I opened the floor for feedback. "Miss, I think Shakespeare’s overrated." "Why didn’t he write it in normal English?" "Can we do something modern, like Twilight?" If I had a dagger, it would be invisible, and I’d be contemplating how to best use it right now. Instead, I forced a smile and said, "Shakespeare’s themes are timeless. That’s why we still study him." A lie, obviously. We study him because the curriculum says we have to.

As the bell rang, my class shuffled out, leaving behind a room full of crumpled scripts and the lingering smell of Lynx Africa. Kyle turned to me on his way out and said, "That wasn’t so bad, Miss. Do we have to do more?" Yes, Kyle. We do. Because apparently, the only thing worse than watching teenagers butcher Shakespeare is watching teenagers butcher more Shakespeare. But not today. Today, I’m going home, pouring myself a glass of wine, and writing a strongly worded letter to whoever decided Macbeth was a suitable text for 16-year-olds.