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This is a question PE Lessons

For some they may have been the highlight of the school week, but all we remember is a never-ending series of punishments involving inappropriate nudity and climbing up ropes until you wet yourself.

Tell us about your PE lessons and the psychotics who taught them.

(, Thu 19 Nov 2009, 17:36)
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Physical Education GCSE Paper 1 - Multiple Choice
Question 1
It’s Monday morning and first period is Rugby. During morning tutor period the class arsehole scrawls out a fake sick-note from his mum on A4 lined paper. You sneer at his piss poor effort but the spawny bastard only goes and gets away with it. Do you:
a) Grass the little shit up.
b) Jog out onto the rugby pitch without a care because you’re a well-rounded likeable chap who loves team sports.
c) Wait 20 years and then piss and moan about it on the Internet.

Question 2
It’s the rugby house matches and once again you have been picked for the scrum front row. Is this because:
a) Everyone hates you
b) You are a fit young man with above average strength and physique.
c) It’s the rugby equivalent of sticking the useless kid in goal.

Question 3
The rugby lesson has finished and as per usual the shaven monkey who ‘taught’ the ‘lesson’ has allowed for a total of 3 minutes at the end to have a shower, get changed and make it to your next lesson. The fat bitch that teaches you German is going to have a pop at you if you are late again. Do you:
a) Stick your head under a tap to give the illusion of showering but then get grassed up by everyone and have the humiliation of being forced back into the shower.
b) Shower and get changed and STILL make it to your next lesson on time because your time management skills are second to none.
c) Run back to the changing rooms in a vain attempt to beat the horde, have the briefest of showers before the nonce of a PE teacher notices you barely touched the water and forces you back in to do a better job. You turn up for the next lesson hot and flustered and 10 minutes late. The fat bitch berates you again, just like she did last week, just like she will next week.

Question 4
You are feeling ill in the morning before you go to school. You ask your mum for a note excusing you from PE that day. What happens?
a) Mummy writes you a note; just like the one she writes for you every sodding week. Or she doesn’t and you scrawl one out on A4 paper.
b) You get a note but you take your games kit anyway just in case you feel better, which you do and joyfully participate in PE that day.
c) HA HA! You could be bleeding from your eyes and she would still send you off to school with your PE kit. What doesn’t kill you only makes you resentful.

Question 5
You have been chosen as a team captain for the duration of the PE lesson. What is the correct procedure for picking teammates?
a) I have a sick-note, I’ll keep score.
b) Best players first, then friends, then the “less able”.
c) Trick question, you were never chosen to be team captain.

Question 6
A fat kid is having his bare back slapped by a jeering mob in the changing room, do you:
a) Get some good slaps in before the games teacher half-heartedly breaks it up.
b) Break it up yourself and then choose the fat kid for your team, thus boosting his self-confidence.
c) Thank god it’s not you.

Question 7
A young attractive female PE teacher has joined the staff. Do you:
a) Use a compass to carve “Miss Williams is a dirty slag” into every possible desk.
b) Respect her as you would any member of teaching staff.
c) Nod in agreement at the sexually graphic opinions of your peers and what they would like to do with the new PE teacher, even though you’re not quite sure what any of it means.

Question 8
You have been given a choice of PE activities for the next term, what do you choose?
a) It doesn’t matter because your mum has written a sick-note….on A4 lined paper.
b) Rugby without a doubt. It’s character building and good exercise.
c) The Trampoline, because it’s inside, easy and you get to see the girls wobbly bits wobble.

Question 9
It’s Sports day! Where are you?:
a) Sniffing glue behind the bike sheds
b) Leading your house to victory
c) Hiding in the computer room

Question 10
10 years have passed since leaving school and your boss asks if you are interested in joining the firms 5 a side football team. What is your response?
a) Trick question, you’re dole scum or in prison.
b) Of course, sign me up!
c) You mumble something non-committal and hope you never get asked again.

How did you do?
Mostly (a's) – Oh dear, you’re an absolute disgrace to the glorious subject of PE, you have weaselled your way out of every bit of exercise. Take your GCSE A* and get out.

Mostly (b's) – You are a true sporting champion and a leader of men. You have earned your GCSE A* and you are well on your way to studying Sports Science at the PolyUniversity of Basingstoke.

Mostly (c's) - You are me…GET OUT OF MY HEAD!
(, Mon 23 Nov 2009, 18:44, 6 replies)
There is some corner of a field which is forever England
Deep in darkest Somerset, a yellow-eyed headmaster peered through his tobacco-stained windows and noticed that, for the first time in three hundred and eleventy years, it wasn't raining. His brow furrowed atop his wrinkled head as he picked up the phone, dialed an extension, and breathed a single word into the receiver. A word which would change history, alter destinies, and cause more death than he could ever have imagined.

"Aerobics."

Plans were put in motion. A matter of hours later the entire school, all one thousand pupils, teachers, assistants, administrative staff and the creepy old goblin who ran the tuck-shop gathered on the largest playing field and stood facing two scaffolding towers topped with an enormous PA system. A crude stage sat between them, assembled from wooden planks, gym mats and old benches. Some of us nervously joked that we were about to witness a public execution. Hah! Today was not to be the end of just one victim. Instead of a hooded hangman there, stood on the stage, was Miss O'Leary, school Head of PE.

Miss O'Leary was, naturally, a raging lesbian with a red-cheeked love of physical excercise that made a Hitler Youth leader look like, well, a typical B3tan. Looking back, she resembled God's first, rejected attempt at creating Ellen MacArthur (who was fresh from completing the first solo circumnavigation of her mum's womb at the time.)

With a nod from proto-Ellen, Mr Armstrong (the music teacher) handed her a microphone and pulled a huge lever. Giant speaker stacks sizzled and hummed and her voice, electrically enhanced, roared at us:

"Just copy me!"

Kylie began singing The Locomotion. Miss O'Leary begain doing star jumps and slowly the rest of us began jumping too. There we were, over a thousand of us, bouncing away in an ungainly parody of communist state mass public excercise. It beat double maths, anyway.

The occasional laugh and shreik came to our ears over the deafening chart pop. Strangely the laughs grew louder and more frequent, despite the excercise. I could see ranks breaking as I looked around me. Something wasn't right, I could feel it, but what could I do? I could see no escape, nor any obvious sign of danger. My sense of unease grew.

Then, with a mighty, wet SMACK, the first worm hit me in the face. Lured to the surface by the rhythmic pounding of two thousand pairs of feet, earthworms covered the ground. The mud and grass was barely visible, we were star jumping (this is the only move I know) on top of a writhing carpet of slimy, brown worms. Pandora's box had opened. Hell's gates were breached, and battle was joined.

Raising my head as if recovering from shell shock I looked up to a sky filled with countless flying annelids. There was no laughter anymore, only terrified, disgusted female screams. Children running for shelter, diving behind other children, crying, shouting, desperately flinging squirming invertebrates to cover their retreat, scrabbling in the mud for more ammunition; it was Guernica with living bullets.

I saw heroism that day, true, but it's the horror that haunts my sleep now.
(, Tue 24 Nov 2009, 16:02, 4 replies)
Tramp Attack
Our school was big on trampolining for some reason. I honestly don't know why, it's not like we were the champions of the local Imaginary Trampoline League or anything, but we had two of the fucking things, and both our heads of sport were masters of the bouncy lattice. The big chief – let's call him Mr C, not because that was his name, but because I'm a huge Shamen fan – was a PE teacher in the classic mould. Every day he sported tracksuit and bling, with his glassy eyes covered in big tinted specs – imagine '70s Edward Woodward playing Jimmy Saville in a biopic. He was the Gene Hunt of secondary school atheltics, and as a result had earned the imaginative nickname of 'The Bastard'.
For our first lesson, in order to making bouncing seem somehow glamorous, Mr C assembled the class for a demonstration of tricks which were SO DANGEROUSLY DEATH-DEFYING that the pupils must NEVER, EVER perform them. Got that? That's the only reason I'm showing you these tricks, maggots, so you know not to do them. That sort of thing. To be fair, it was quite impressive as he performed a raft of double-kneejerk frock slides and underarm arctic rolls and all that stuff you do on trampolInes when you have NO FEAR OF DEATH.
Demonstration finished, Mr C then reached the critical 'warming down' phase, in which you gradually reduce the intensity of your bounces until you, and the mesh, come to a complete and harmonious stop, preventing you from falling off and bashing your head. You can guess what's coming next. That's right, he misjudged a bounce and landed bollocks-first on one of the springs, which locked its pitiless springy jaws fastly on the stems of his testicles. Mr C was in agony. Sweet, hilarious agony. Once the class realised this was not, in fact, a demonstration of a trick they should never try (well, I suppose it was in a sense), absorbed the awesomeness of the situation and stifled their hysteria sufficiently, they left the gym to alert another teacher, and eventually the emergency services. All the while Mr C was suspended by the balls, trying to hold himself steady as the spring crushed his nickynackynoos like a vice - after all, the slightest twist would result in instant nadputation. The sounds he made were along the lines of a wildebeest trying to rap in Chinese.
Once the fire brigade had stopped laughing, they realised the only way to free Mr C without eunachising him was to cut the attached of the trampoline away. Thus he was publically stretchered into the ambulance with a sqaure of trampoline chowing down on his dillbag. Following a short and humiliating operation, Mr C was finally freed from his bollocky nightmare. When he awoke, he was given the sad news – one of his men didn't make it out of the ordeal alive. The kids, as you can imagine, were sympathetic. They stopped calling him 'The Bastard' after that. Instead they awarded him a gentler, altogether fluffier nickname. 'Womble'.
(, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 16:25, 5 replies)
Hockey
Without wanting to sound like a black sheep so early on, unlike the majority of the posts so far this week I bloody loved PE when I were at Secondary School. I represented the School in Rugby, Football and Cricket, and when we moved Campuses to start our GCSEs (now known as Year 10) at the tender age of 14, us lads were introduced to hockey.

Now for some reason I found an extra-special aptitude for this queer old non-contact sport; I scored goals for fun. In my first-ever hockey-based PE lesson I scored nine goals. The premise seemed to be that one kid would actually connect with the ball and knock it twenty or thirty yards or so, the 'defence' would attempt to stop the ball by chopping their sticks down on the ground, albeit too late, and yours truly would 'latch on' to the through ball using his cheetah-esque pace and score.

So it was that the School decided that a decent number of Year 10 lads seemed OK-enough hockey players, and a team was formed and fixtures arranged against local Oxfordshire Schools, with me being selected as centre-forward, on account of my prolificacy in front of goal (I had, by this point, scored 26 goals in four PE lessons).

So it was that we played our first match. I soon realised that the tried-and-tested routine - run onto through-ball that the defence completely messes up the act of cutting out - wasn't going to work, as the opposing School had obviously selected guys at the back who had mastered the basic art of stopping a hockey ball coming towards them. I did manage to pinch a goal in that game, and we drew 2-2. Not a bad result at all considering it was our 'debut' hockey match.

Our next game was against a local college - bigger lads than us - so we were to be up against it. Our School had the genius stroke of playing the game to coincide with the School lunch break, so we would receive support from a large number of pupils and teachers midway through the first half and most of the second. We got an early goal to calm our nerves, and I struck just before half-time to put us two-up, just as bodies started beginning to congregate around the pitch. I added to my tally early on in the second period, to some cheers and applause and although they pulled one back, we had a cushion. We scored a fourth, and with ten minutes to go I was eyeing my hat-trick.

So fate prevailed. A through ball was missed by the defence, and I had the chance I wanted. One-on-one with the 'keeper, I advanced rapidly, let him leave the sanctity of his line, and as he rushed towards me I calmly stroked the ball to his right, the ball noisely clacking against the wooden backing of the goal.

The adrenaline was really flowing now. I was pumped, I had an audience, and so, in split-second, my adolescent brain made the democratic decision to play to the crowd and celebrate. I was to lower my shorts and moon them.

Now, this manoeuvre generally requires stealth and dexterity as well as a cessation of movement before the lowering of the flag can take place if you'll pardon the expression. I, however, decided to lower my undercarriage whilst still in motion. I managed to wrest my shorts down to expose the top half of my buttocks, but in this process I managed to lose my balance and tumbled to the ground, one hand clasping my hockey stick, the other gingerly holding my shorts. As I had no hands free to necessitate a soft landing, I hit the ground hard and my hand freed itself of my shorts which dug into the turf as I landed, lowering themselves (and my underwear) to that sacred area between groin and knee, exposing my Crown Jewels to all and sundry.

It not being the warmest day on record, my genitalia had decided to adopt the appearance of a garden snail slowly retreating back into its shell. Thus, not only did I receive dentention after a trip to the Headmaster's office to explain my action (which I also had to explain in writing) but the paucity of my giggle stick prevented me from being deemed a worthy suitor until well into my A-Levels...
(, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 1:07, 5 replies)
Swim Class
Picture the scene; a group of 9-10 year olds, all shivering, teeth chattering as the teacher tries to encourage them to swim into the depths of the murky water and retrieve the rubber block from the crusty veruca laden pool floor. The children are pale, and try mercifully to dodge any dead insects that may happen to float past their open mouths as they come hastily to the surface for an intake of oxygen. We’ve all been there, and whether it be the horrible water we were made to swim in, the weird green water we had to stand in before entering the pool, or trying to sneak a peek through the cracks in the changing rooms to catch the opposite sex stark bollock naked, we’ve all got different memories about swim class at school.

I hated swimming - there was no pleasure to be taken from getting into freezing cold water whilst receiving orders from a miserable teacher, who wanted to be inside as much as I did. It was on about my third of fourth swim class of the year that this story happened, and it is one that I look back on with mixed emotions. On this particular day, it was raining and windy, yet we were made to go swimming anyway. The water actually felt warm for once; probably because it was so cold in the old, wooden shack that passed for a changing room. I remember feeling as if I could crimp off a poo before I entered the water, but not wanting to make my excuses to go to the toilet, I kept quiet. ‘It isn’t that strong an urge’ I thought to myself, and so I just clenched as tightly as I could as I tried to do a length of the pool in unison with half of my class mates. This is more difficult when you’re all doing backstoke, and arms and heads are colliding with one another, as well as the sides of the pool. When I finally reached the other end, the ‘slight urge’ to poo, had now become a desperate one.

I still don’t know why I didn’t ask to go to the toilet – probably the fact that everyone would know I was off to lay a brown bog trout, so I stood in the waist high water and crossed my legs, inhaling as much as I could, hoping to suck my ever-nearing poo back up into my anus. I watched as other members of the class were made to dive under the water and fetch a 10p piece, and then I felt it. Reaching around to the back of my shorts, I gently ‘cupped’ the fabric and felt the unmistakable heaviness of a fresh log. It had slipped out without warning, and I had a predicament literally on my hands. I couldn’t waddle out of the pool, with my newly acquired tail protuding proudly from the back of my shorts, so I suppose I did what any 9 year old kid would do – I pulled my shorts to the side and dangled my leg about, until my newborn dropped free. This was harder than I first thought it would be, as my swim shorts had that tight netting-like layer. I thank God that I wasn’t wearing speedos.

My plan was going well. I had released my poo, and the next step was to give it a swift kick to the side and then carry on swimming as normal, except my plan didn’t get this far. To my horror, it floated slowly, agonisingly, to the surface, spinning as it rose in the water. I turned my back on it, hoping to hide it from view. With the realisation that I was ever closer to being caught for dumping in the pool ( it was nearly my turn to dive for the 10p), I turned back to face it, and it one swift motion, scooped it out of the water and discarded it on the side of the pool, where it sat like a giant dehydrated slug until the end of the lesson. I still don’t know how I didn’t get caught, but now I make sure that I always use the toilet prior to getting in a swimming pool.
(, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 12:04, 4 replies)
My PE teacher at comp looked like my Dad...
...Which makes this all the more disturbing for me...

I'd have been about 15 years old at the time and seeing as it was a bright, sunny day we were once again marched into the sweltering gym to do high jump...bastards. Now, I've always been quite good at high jump due to my natural gait being akin to tigger on speed.
So... we're all messing about, throwing the geeks *through* the high jump gear into the air mat so they bounced off into the climbing bars when in walks the dreaded Mr Rigley. Who immediately picked me to be his guinea pig in explaining how physics can make you jump better. To explain the concept of a 'centre of mass' he decided it would be good to stand me in front of the class, while he stood behind, reached around and rubbed my lower abdomen to show my 'centre of mass'. Now this was disturbing enough... A fat, hairy middle aged man who looks like my dad stroking my tummy...gross, but not the worst... No, the sick pervert then announces that as a girl I have to consider the weight of my breasts...and you guessed it, the filthy old perv reaches up to my considerably large pert young breasts.

Being 15 and unsure of how to say 'get the fuck off me you slimy old cunt' without getting expelled I looked to the class for help... Just in time to see Joe, my best male friend take a running jump and kick the sick old cunt in the face. I don't think I'll ever forget the lovely crunchy sound that emanated from Mr R's nose and jaw as he dropped like a sack of shit to the floor. Even better was watching him try to explain to the Headmistress why he didn't want to press charges against Joe. How could he? We'd have grassed him up!

PE teachers, cunts and perverts...all of them!
(, Sun 22 Nov 2009, 18:15, 62 replies)
Standing out for the wrong reason
A repost, but relevant:-
Now physical feats of speed or endurance are not my thing. PE teacher never did learn my name. Not a bad thing. I'm more of a brainy type. Of course this means I had my fair share of bullying but I like to think it was jealousy based. I can see some of you are nodding and some want to punch me already.

Aged 12, at a selective boys grammar school, I'm trying to make my mark with a new load of 30 class mates. PE class warms up with the usual running around exercises until Sir sets one particular task.
"Everyone in the middle of the gym, now run and touch every wall and return to the centre"
This is the cue for every boy to immediately scatter to the middle of the nearest wall before turning around and running fast as their little spindly legs could carry them to the middle of the opposite wall (some unfortunately meeting another boy coming the other way) before returning to the middle of the gym, turning 90 degrees (or pi/2, as I like to think of it) and repeating with the last two opposite walls.

Now I really don’t like to do more than I have to; one of life’s natural slackers perhaps. I thought for a moment and proceeded to jog sedately to the corner of the gym where I touched two walls at once, ambled to the opposite corner, touched the last two walls and returned leisurely to the centre of the gym arriving way before the speediest of my peers.

I had singled myself out to staff and pupils alike as too-bloody-clever-for-his-own-good.
(, Sat 21 Nov 2009, 17:25, 6 replies)
My friend George...
My friend George at Primary School was so shy, he'd go to any lengths to avoid drawing attention to himself. Unfortunately for him, it didn't always work out. Like the time his mum had forgotten to give him his gym kit, so he queued up for gym naked.

He also once tried so hard to hold in a fart during assembly, that it actually whistled out. Everyone turned round to see him sat there, cross legged, grimacing like a Buddha with haemorrhoids, whilst emitting a noise like a boiled kettle.
(, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 12:17, 5 replies)
PErversion.
The rather elderly, yet still hard as iron, head of PE at my school was renowned for his advice and wisdom on growing up and being a man. Such gems included:

PE Teacher, standing hands on hips, groin thrust forward: "Boys there's no better feeling than when you come inside your wife"
Class of 14 year olds: "Erm..."

PE Teacher, hands moving salaciously and expressively: "Now that you're getting older, and things are growing, you'll want to stand in front of a mirror and just let it all swing out."
Class of 15 year olds: "Erm..."

PE Teacher, slight drool at one corner of his mouth: "Jenkins, was that you I saw trying to finger some girl in the park last weekend? Good work boy."
Jenkins: "Erm..."

PE Teacher, hand worryingly in pocket, 'playing with his keys': "Roberts, you are a horrible little bastard, but your mother is a doll."
Roberts: "Sir! That's my mother!"
PE Teacher: "To think you crawled out of that..."

True story.
(, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 12:14, 3 replies)
Rugby 101
At junior school I was in the '6th Game'. For reference, the '1st Game' was all the proper sporty types who played against other schools and shit. The '2nd Game' was a slight drop down - they played other schools too, but not at such a high level. And so the list dropped, right down to us in the '6th Game'. We had no other schools to play against (though once we lost to the local girls school in a volleyball match) and we were assigned the worst, non-sporting, couldn't-give-a-shit teachers to watch over our games sessions.

The 6th Game at HF Prep was quality through and through. We had the wets, the weeds, the fatties, the asthmatics, the Japanese, the Indians, the special needs and the 'differently abled'. None of whom had any desire to be anywhere near a playing field on a cold, drizzly Weds afternoon.

The game was rugby. The teacher was Mr Pullen, the science master. Pullen was a legend. He had a shock of red hair and an equally red beard - both of which he left to their own devices, creating the mad-scientist look he was probably aiming for. He was famous for careering down corridors, heaving kids out of the way shouting, 'COME ON YOU PEOPLE!' at the top of his voice. Nutter. Probably wouldn't be allowed near children in this day and age.

His science classes were legendary too. He used to leave the chemistry cabinet open – cue me and many others leaving school with ribbons of magnesium and bottles of mercury, leading to burnt retinas and a probably cancerous later life.

But anyhoo...back the question. The game was rugby. Mr Pullen had never played rugby before. He actually turned up to the pitch with a huge booked entitled 'The Rules of Rugby'. He got us to jog round the pitch, then called us to the touchline and started to explain the rules. He could barely be heard above the wheezing, retching, feeble mass of bodies that was the 6th Game. He explained kicking. He explained tries. And then he explained tackling.

A volunteer was needed. Pullen pointed at Rapinder Sood, the skinniest, bow-legged, tiniest - but still only moustachioed boy in the school.

We noticed the Head had wandered to the games fields with a couple of prospective parents in tow. They paused to take in our lesson.

'You boy!' Pullen shouted. 'I've got the ball, I'm going to jog over there, I want to tackle me, below the knees and retrieve the ball. Got it?'

'Yes Sir.' mumbled Rapinder.

Pullen jogged off slowly. Rapinder followed behind even slower.

'Now boy. Now!' screamed Pullen.

Rapinder caught up with the teacher. He made an effort of diving for Mr Pullen's legs but missed any real connection. But he succeeded in just catching his ankles...and he held on for dear life.

Mr Pullen continued to jog on. Rapinder continued to grasp his ankles. There was no way Rapinder was ever going to bring the teacher down. But something else did come down.

Rapinder's doggedness in hanging on to Mr Pullen's ankles made sure that the teacher's tracksuit bottoms were pulled all the way down.

Mr Pullen was not wearing shorts under his tracksuit. Mr Pullen was not wearing pants under his tracksuit. Mr Pullen was wearing fuck all under his tracksuit.

And there he stood, for a split-second that will be held for all eternity, stark bollock naked from the waist down, a shock of ginger pubes surrounding a not inconsiderable cock and balls.

The 6th Game were rewarded that day. So what if we never knew the joys of winning a game in the last minute. So what if we never felt the surge of victory as we vanquished our opponents. So what if none of us have been near a ball or a blade of grass for the last 20 years. So what. Because we can tell the world with clarity and conviction about the day Rapinder Sood de-bagged Mr Pullen on the rugby pitch, in full view of the Headmaster, some parents and every member of now legendary 6th Game.
(, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 14:05, 1 reply)
Falling to the wet earth in pain
clutching his ankle, my mate Paul swore he'd ruptured something. There was no one anywhere near him to put in a tackle, the big bag of shite just went down and did his dying swan routine. After jogging over and giving him a playful tap on the foot with my studs I realised he wasn't actually faking it.

"AAaaoooowwwwwwWWWWWeeeeeiiiIIIieeeeee !!!" Paul went as white as Michael Jackson after a flour fight as the footie game continued round us. "Think I've ruptured summit !!!" Looking back Paul had probably done in his posterior ligament (easily done without any physical contact, just have to put your foot down at an odd angle).

But that's not what he told the PE teacher. By the time Mr Butler had stopped the game and lumbered his fat bearded carcass over to us, I'd already filled Paul in on what his injury probably was. And the cunt only went and fucking beleived me.

So, as a crowd of milling teenage boys gathered round my sticken mate, rain pouring down, Paul declared between clenched teeth:

"Sir, I think I've ruptured my hymen."

The origin of nicknames is pretty random; for the rest of our time at Northampton School for Boys my mate Paul was known as Paula by the rest of the fellas on the footie team.
(, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 1:25, 3 replies)
the competitive aspect
By some odd arrangement what with funds being left by some long dead benefactor - our school playing fields were miles away, and I mean other side of Glasgow miles away from our inner city school. This required two coaches for PE, and probably quite sensibly, that meant one for boys one for girls.

It was a 20 minute journey so to make up time it was customary for us to get changed into PE kit on the bus (which explains the mystery of why pairs of shoes are often seen at the side of the road – flung out the window of our school PE bus no doubt.)

This arrangement worked fine until one fateful day an otherwise dull trip was transformed when one coach driver decided to overtake the other on a brief stretch of dual carriageway. As the boys coach inched past the girls, the world went into slow motion – there they were; Jacqueline Marshall’s pale pert perfect breasts. The coach went wild.

Word must have circulated among the drivers because it seemed from then on every week there was a mad dash for the boys coach (always behind) to overtake on that hallowed stretch of dual carriageway. Accidental slip ups soon turned to school blouses pulled open and tits squashed against steamy windows – like Homer Simpson peering out of a diving mask. Spotty boy’s arses shoved up against the glass and both buses rocking with cheers and jeers. Good times.

The drivers seemed to love it and a lone PE teacher down the front was always going struggle to keep order what with a shed load of hormones careering along the highway. My guess is they kind of liked the competitive aspect (and probably the show).

All until one week that is when we heard the blues and twos - our bus just about exploded with cheers when it became apparent the girls bus was being pulled over by plod.

I’d have loved to have seen the coppers face when he realised he had pulled over a grinning speeding perv with 38 semi naked schoolgirls on board.

One for the wank bank surely.
(, Sun 22 Nov 2009, 17:14, 1 reply)
BALL GAME
“This really is out of character, I must say. I'm going to have to telephone your parents... We could even be looking at involving the police,” said Mr Widdington, my Head Master. I gulped and felt my pubescent gonads shrink to the size of two marbles and watched as Widdy reached for the phone on his desk to call my mum.

Earlier that day my year had been pissing about doing something new in PE. As we'd just started in the 3rd Year we were now officially old enough to start playing a new sport that none of us had tried before. It was a strange cult-type sport involving silly clothes, strange rituals, the use of saliva in strange and interesting ways, and no small amount of the rubbing of leather coated cork balls on groinal areas. Our impressionable thirteen year old minds were introduced to such strange phrases as short leg, silly mid wicket, googly, and OOOOOWWWWW-ZZZZZZ-AAAAA-TTTTT !!! (Usually followed by a very quiet: ”You fucker?” Under your breath for the amusement of your mates nearby.

Yes, we were going to learn how to play this toffs sport usually reserved for inbred Englishmen from monied backgrounds as an excuse to pat each other on the bottoms and proclaim: “Jolly good show, what?” While checking out each others arses in tight white linen trousers.

We were going to learn how to playing cricket.

We had cricket nets at my school. So on this bright and breezy Monday morning Cunt McCabe (the PE teacher – his surname was McCabe and he was a complete and utter cunt), took my class down to the nets and we started chucking fuck off hard balls at each other. The object being to fend said fuck off hard ball away with an oddly shaped plank of wood (if batting), or to attempt to maim your mate with a ball to the head (if bowling). But that wasn't the most exciting part. No, the best thing about this new, strange, weird sport was the fact we were going to get to put a cricket box down the front of our shorts and stride round feeling somewhat like a Roman gladiator. They were in a cardboard box off to one side, tantalizing us, dazzling us with their testicle-protecting goodness.

“Right, line up you lot,” said McCabe. We lined up. “Paul here is going to show you how its done,” McCabe called Paul Sinclair up to the front. Paul already played cricket for Warwickshire Under 15's and was a shit hot player. To Paul McCabe said: “Demonstrate a defensive stroke, Paul.”

And that's when my mind started wondering. My eyes were fixated on Paul Sinclair's crotch. Or rather the bulge there. It was fucking immense. I nudged my mate Greg stood next to me and whispered; “Paul's already got a box on.”

Short pause then Greg whispered back: ”Go on... Dare you... … …Kick him in the bollocks... ”

”Fuck off !!!”

To which Greg reasoned: ”You fucking pussy !!!”

”Fuck off, no fucking chance, mate !!!”

”Ppppppuuuuuuuusssssssssssssssyyyyyyyyy !!!!!!!!!”

And it went on like this for the length of time it took Cunt McCabe and Paul Sinclair to demonstrate the hook and pull shot to a bunch of disinterested inner city retards. Eventually I caved. As McCabe finished his demonstration with teachers pet, Paul – I'm So Fucking Good At Cricket – Sinclair, and made us give the lanky shit a round of applause as he went to step back in line, I saw my chance.

Without putting too much thought into it I launched myself forward and kicked Paul Sinclair clean plumb hard in the bollocks. I felt my toe make contact with something soft and squidgy. Paul's eyes went wide, he made a weird girlish curdling noise like a rutting narwhal, and went down in the fetal position trembling and whimpering.

My feet didn't even touch the ground, Cunt McCabe had be in Widdy's office in less than five minutes flat.

Turns out Paul wasn't wearing a cricket box at all...

only a pair of very tight shorts...

coupled with the sort of freakish supersized testicles you'd usually find swinging free at the rear end of a donkey...
(, Thu 19 Nov 2009, 23:39, 13 replies)
PE Teacher
Catholic boys school. Australia. Late 70's. We had a right bastard of a sports master. His claim to fame(of which he reminded us constantly)was that he had been to the Mexico Olympics as a walker. I always said its a pity he didn't go to Munich and get shot by an Arab.

Anyway he was a bully, he used to try and humiliate the fat kids, I was built like a greyhound and could run if I needed to,I just didn't see the point to it, but my best mate was a porker and used to get tormented by the bastard. I hated him and he knew it.

Our mutual dislike came to a head one day in "health class" He asked if anybody didn't like sport, I raised my hand. You don't like football? (Rugby League in these parts)
No.
You don't like soccer?
No.
You don't like cricket?
No.
Well why not, whats wrong with sport?

It's just something the unintelligent do for self esteem.

He was speechless, he had just been bitch slapped by a 12 year old,he had no comeback at all. I don't think he spoke to me for the rest of the year and he resigned at the end of the school year. I have always hoped that I contributed to that decision.

He was replaced by a fantastic sports master who encouraged everybody to compete to the best of their ability and who instilled in me an appreciation of sport that I retain to this day (except cricket, that still sucks).

Conpar. Be gentle it's my first time.
(, Sat 21 Nov 2009, 12:13, 4 replies)
My pal Tom
Like me was an unathletic type and once got the ball, presumably by accident, in a game of rugby. He whirls round and in a moment of genius points up and says, "Look! A total eclipse!" Everyone stops to look and he runs the whole length of the pitch to a try. Games teacher is unimpressed, goes apeshit and makes him run laps for the afternoon.

Surely the correct thing to do would be to give him a fucking medal!
(, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 11:53, Reply)
The "Comedy Second"
Ahhh, the joys of the "Comedy Second". You all know what this is; it's a moment in time where a particularly nasty thing has happened to a person and time seems to freeze, just long enough for everyone to grasp the situation presented to them before things speed up to normal.

I caused one of these to occur in PE once. Twas during a spectacularly boring game of Indoor Cricket.

Now I have never liked cricket. I find it tedious to say the least. Hitting a ball with a stick every minute or so aint my idea of fun, so when the PE teach announced we were to get the springy uprights out quite a few of us in the less-able PE group all contributed to a more than audible sigh throughout the gym.

All setup, and 40 minutes later I had pretty much stood still for the entire time wondering when school was going to finish. Our team were now excitedly "batting" (I'm sure that's an Urban Dictionary term now) and lo, it was my go. Yey.

As we were in the spazzy group, just moving the bat and touching the ball constituted to a run. Hitting the side walls and touching the floor was a 4, while hitting the side walls of the gym straight off was a 6. Joy. Also, it was a tennis ball used, plus the bowler could only use underarm too. Could this get any lamer? Thankfully no.

Our team needed about 15 runs, and I was just happy to stand perfectly still and tap every bowl to me. I got a run and no-one had a chance to catch me. See, spaz PE'ers can strategize too :D So all the fielders had decided to move in closer and closer until they were literally about 2 metres away from me. One of these fielders was Shaun, a quiet enough lad who lived around the corner from me. Poor, poor Shaun.

I need about 6 more runs to win, but all the fielders are closing in. Time for a change of tactics methinks. The ball is bowled to me. I take a deep breath. Then twat the fucker with all my might. The visciousness of the swing surprised everyone, none more so than Shaun, who managed to catch the ball quite literally with his bollocks.

The "Comedy Second" is born.

Shaun's face contorts, firstly into a look of shock, then into a look of uber-pain. During this time, everyone in the gym took in a deep breath of air as they were all boys and knew exactly what Shaun was experiencing. This is the only time men genuinely get sympathy pains, watching someone's nuts getting crunched. Pregnancy pains? You're having a laugh. A gunt in the goolies? Men crossing legs nervously nearby.

To top this off, gravity had temporarily disabled and the tennis ball had snuggily made a pillow of Shauns beanbag and remained embedded there for a full second, before finally time sped up again and it peeled off, dropping as normal to the floor. With Shaun following it. While making mong noises.

As his ballbag temporarily catching the tennis ball was not counted as an actual catch, I was still in to bat and the remaining fielders all backed off by a number of yards, all nervously covering their nads. I went back to tapping the tennis ball again and won the match, yey me.

Poor Shaun, but yey me.
(, Wed 25 Nov 2009, 16:08, 3 replies)
A wee pearoast to start....
2nd year PE.....

We were playing rugby.

A large, speccy, nerdy type received a pass. He spotted a gap amid the throng of juvenile bodies, and hit the accelerator. This was going to be his big moment - a try of all things! He was no longer going to be a nerd, but a sporting legend!

Strangely his opponents appeared somewhat reticent in tackling him, and he ploughed on towards the try line.

What he had failed to realise was that his cock had flopped out of his shorts as he bombed towards the aghast defensive line, scaring the bejesus out of all before him. No wonder no one attempted to 'tackle' him.
(, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 10:13, 7 replies)
A great memory from my last year...
I was, and still pretty much am, the fat slow kid. But by the 5th year, I was, overall, the strongest, tallest and heaviest kid in school:- I therefore shone at the recently-introduced school sports day event of "Tug of War". Believe me when I say no other team stood a chance.

Come the end of year assembly, and the tedious "handing out awards" ceremony, my P.E. teacher called me up to the stage. He's had a special trophy made up just for me: A short length of rope, with a red ribbon attached with gold lettering, that he asked me to read out to the school.

It said "RESISTANCE IS FUTILE".

:)
(, Wed 25 Nov 2009, 18:30, Reply)
Ah Memories.
I remember one cricket match when the star batsman of our cricket team took a "Blacksmith's Hoik" at an easy ball. Absolutely skied the bastard clear over the boundary and hit one of the Lower Sixth girls right in the cunt. Didn't hurt her too much. Broke the head boys fingers though.
(, Mon 23 Nov 2009, 1:11, 4 replies)
All PE teachers...
...are bullies or pervs. Or both.

I was a late developer and my PE teacher Mr Welshgit used to delight in taking the piss out of my hairless cock when I was in the shower.
The nickname he gave me - "No-Pubes" - didn't help my chances with the girls at all.

My 19 year old sister asked me if Mr Welshgit was my PE teacher and I said he was and asked why she wanted to know. She replied "I got off with him last Friday in the Dark Lantern" (local pub).
She also told me she was hoping to see him again.
They apparently had indulged in some rather vigorous nocturnal PE...

The next PE lesson I casually mentioned to Mr Welshgit that my sister said to say hi. There was mild surprise on his his face that an underdeveloped spotty yoof such as I was the brother of the girl he had spent Friday exercising his love muscle with.

His expression changed to abject horror when I insisted she was only 15.

He stood her up on their already arranged next date and never gave me a hard time again.
(, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 15:21, 8 replies)
He made SURE we all had a shower
PE Teacher: "Staurt, do you usually wear your boxer shorts in the shower at home?"
Stuart: "No, but I don't usually have a big poof watching over me."

Scary, but true.
(, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 13:52, 1 reply)
I'd partake in the qotw
but I've forgotten my keyboard. May I be excused?
(, Tue 24 Nov 2009, 16:59, 5 replies)
A note
When I was 13, I fell off my bike and banged my hip quite hard which made walking a bit painful. So, I got my mum to write me a note. I didn't read it and just handed it in at the start of PE. She'd put.

"Please excuse SLVA from PE as he's got a bad side.". The teacher laughed and showed me the note. He said that he also has a bad side when he drinks too much.
(, Tue 24 Nov 2009, 15:00, 3 replies)
One of those rare lessons
where I didn't run about on a cold playground watching the sporty types play football. 500 words, so it's in the reply.
(, Tue 24 Nov 2009, 13:56, 4 replies)
WIN
I remember turning up to PE without my football boots once. Everyone knows this is a cardinal sin, for which the minimum punishement is 90 lashes with red hot pokers in every orifice. So you can imagine my trepidation as I decide to fess up, and sidle up to the PE office door whilst the changing room is a fever of shinpad donning activity.

“Scuse me sir”. Thank shite, it’s not the head of PE, it’s his less formiddable side kick, but still my heart races.

“Yeah what”.

“Er, I’ve forgotton my boots sir”. Visions of me sliding round a sodden January pitch in my socks enter my head.

“Oh. You’d better do trampolining with the girls then”.

SILENCE. The changing room stops dead and every hormone saturated fifteen year old lad in that room year freezes stock still and I feel their stunned gaze wander from the teacher to me, and then back to the teacher. I don’t think a single football got kicked that day.
(, Tue 24 Nov 2009, 10:23, Reply)
This is now the third time I've told this story.
The Swimming Gala at Upper School.
In which various pimply herberts competed for glory in the piss infested, bollock reducing over chlorinated puddle that was Sudbury Upper School's pool.

Anyway, we would have been around 15.
I was too piss poor a swimmer to be allowed near the events but my mate Eddie, who was a fine adept of the back stroke, was.

The pattern would go that the girl's event would take place, followed by the boys event of the same 'class' Most of the lads competing had, in view of the fact that it was the one time in the year you'd get to see the girls out of their shapeless uniforms wisely opted to wear swimming cossies in the 'baggy shorts' style which was incredibly popular towards the end of the 80's. Not Ed.

Ed was wearing skin tight Speedos. The backstroke came towards the end of the contest, by which time we'd sat through an awful lot of girls in swinsuits.

The backstroke event started.
Ed took the poidium somewhat reluctantly and had to be reminded three times to remove his tracky bottoms. Eventually he did so, to reveal an impressive erection straining against the aforementioned skin-tight Speedos.
The race started.
And then had to be restarted as all competitors bar one had collapsed(or would have done, had they not been being supported by the water of the pool) laughing at some wag shouting 'that's not fair sir, Eddie's using a rudder!'

Even to this day, getting on for 20 years later he still is occasionally addressed as Rudder.
But only out of his earshot.
(, Sun 22 Nov 2009, 16:31, 4 replies)
PEnice
I always hated PE until, at the age of 13 (by which time I knew I was as gay as it gets,) we got a new PE teacher (lets call him Mr Hot.) Suddenly i had someone worth fantasizing about at night. Anyways, in the last PE lesson before the Christmas hols we were allowed to play jousting where one kid sits on another kid's shoulders and attempts to topple his 2 opponents.

Well, to demonstrate to the class how to fall safely Mr Hot puts me on his shoulders and walks over to the mats. By this time some of those nighttime fantasies about having Mr Hot's head between my thighs have come close to fruition and of course I got a massive stiffy which was slapping the back of his head as he was walking.

Anyhoo, he demonstrates the fall and the class erupts at the sight of Mr Hot going very red in the face and me on my back with my shorts doing a great impression of a ridge-pole tent.

(I relived that scenario in my dreams many times later on only with a more exciting ending and without my classmates mocking and abusing me.)
(, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 10:51, Reply)
Ah, PE...
Going to an all girl's Catholic school made it mandatory that we were 'taught' PE by an ancient sadist who may or may not have once been a woman. We called her Adolfa, and she retaliated by hating each and every one of us with a venomous passion which was somewhat akin with how Nick Griffin views non-indigenous Anglo Saxons. Or how non-indigenous Anglo Saxons feel about Nick Griffin. Or how everyone feels about Nick Griffin.

As was Adolfa's wont, all PE was done outside, unless there was ACTUAL SNOW on the ground. Our PE kit consisted of an Aertex polo shirt and a gym skirt. That was it. Trackie bottoms or even shorts were verboten. So all we did was play tennis, hockey, netball or rounders. In arse-biting cold and rain.

The school had, for some unfathomable reason, installed a full-size swimming pool about a year after I arrived. This was never used, as the only time they tried it, 29 out of 30 girls in every class had their period every week for two months. Smart.

PE sick notes had the same kind of street value as a medium sized shipment of heroin. The girls who had more 'grown-up' handwriting would rake it in every week, often charging the extortionate price of TWO cigarettes or a whole bag of Maltesers for one (you may now be able to see why we hated doing PE, given that all we did was smoke and eat chocolate).

The best times I had doing PE were when we played rounders (although I am quite adept at whacking an enemy in the ankles with a hockey stick. If provoked. And holding a hockey stick). Upon the announcement that we would be playing rounders, before the teams had even been picked, at least ten of those too unfortunate to have a sick-note, and even those who did, would immediately shout "DEEP FIELD!", and leg it up to the top of the hill next to the rounders field, which was covered with long grass, and listen to music and smoke until it was time to come in (I do now see the irony of us RUNNING up the hill, but we didn't want to stick around long enough for Adolfa to thwart our plans. I suspect that Adolfa reasoned - as much as a PE teacher can do so - that at least we had done some exercise). In addition to the smoking opportunities afforded us by the camouflage of the long grass at the top of the hill, it was also the perfect vantage point from which to perv at the lads from the posh all boy's school doing PE.

In all my years at that school, not one person ever hit the rounders ball even half-way towards where all the deep fielders sat. It was at least 150 yards away.

It does say something to their tenacity that they didn't just scrap the whole ridiculous exercise and give us an extra lesson of SOMETHING USEFUL (for most of the girls, this would have been lessons in how to keep their legs shut - 60% of girls from my year had at least one child by the time they turned 20).
(, Thu 19 Nov 2009, 18:16, 5 replies)
I was a football superstar
I've only played football once in the past 22 years. This is for two reasons: my secondary school was a rugby institution; and I am shit at football, and don't see the attraction (and obviously these two considerations are to each other as chicken is to egg).

On the other hand, my primary school did have a football team; and, because it was quite a small primary school, I was on that team by default. Or maybe it was charity. Either way, for the four years of my junior school career, we never won a single game. I'm not completely sure that we ever even scored a goal. We were staggeringly crap.

Being a collegially-minded sort, I contributed enthusiastically to this crapness. I would spend the whole match running up and down the pitch with great gusto; I had to keep moving to make sure that I was never within 20m of the ball. On those rare occasions when the ball was at my feet, I would panic and kick it blindly towards... well, towards whomever was closest. If it was someone from my side, so much the better; but I really wasn't fussed. I just wanted to get the thing as far from me as I could.

Sometimes the ball would travel in the intended direction. But not always.

At the same time, I was fascinated by those who displayed talent. Kids who could head the ball, for example, were an enigma to me. Why on Earth would they want to do that? I tried a couple of times, and ended up with a face full of football and a nosebleed. I suspect I got the details wrong.

I was quite good at diving, though; football's one redeeming feature was that it legitimised a small boy getting very muddy indeed. That was OK by me, and quite fun.

But in 1988, I hung up my football boots, and didn't play again until 2004. By this time, I was doing a fill-the-gaps job as a teacher, and was invitied to play in the Staff v Upper VI Leavers match.

I'm proud to say that being shit at football is like riding a bike: a skill that never diminishes. And headers still seem pointlessly dangerous.
(, Wed 25 Nov 2009, 12:14, 5 replies)
True suffering
I switched schools halfway through secondary school from a crap school to a slightly less crap school.

In crap school, boys winter sports were football and extreme ice snowballing (only one of which was officially sanctioned). The rules to both are pretty simple, even for someone like myself with *zero* interest in taking part in outdoor sports.

In slightly less crap school, boys winter sports were rugby and more rugby. The rules of rugby are, as far as I can discern, made up on the spot. Even if they are actually written down somewhere, having joined halfway through the voyage of discovery of rugby most of my fellow boys were embarked on, I didn't have the first clue what they might be.

So on my first trip to the rugby pitch (which was frozen harder than concrete), in the snow and wind and so on, I wasn't very good. I did a few things wrong, which had names I didn't understand, like "knock on" and "offside" and "what the fuck?!". Not being a very big chap I also suffered somewhat in the not-getting-the-shit-kicked-out-of-me sub-game that seems to be an integral part of rugby.

Anyway, my PE teacher eventually flipped, had a five minute rant at me for being a stupid, pathetic boy. As his punishment he sent me to play volleyball in the warm sports hall with a bunch of fresh, pink, bouncy 14/15-year-old girls in gym-skirts. This ultimate humiliation, he explained, would teach me what being a man was all about. In that he wasn't wrong, though probably not quite in the ways he intended. I would, he foamed, never play rugby on his pitch again, and would for the rest of my days be banished during the winter months to the warm sports hall, with those damned girls in those damned gym skirts and bouncy bits. Bouncy, bouncy.

I still don't understand the rules of rugby. Volleyball on the other hand I still have a bit of a hard-spot for. Thanks Mr Pugh :)
(, Mon 23 Nov 2009, 19:02, Reply)

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