sortof cheats
no one ever remembered the rule that you're allowed to knock the ball out of people's hands. excellent value when you are a) shit at netball and b) someone stands aiming at the goal for aeons. of course, if no one remembers, they are immediately going to assume you're being a dick which means an 'accidental' whacking.

lying down on the bench press machine because it is low down and therefore mostly hidden from pe teacher eyes.

staying mum and crouching down near the back when teams are being picked for sports such as relay race. cant have more than 4 per team. oh no. you got missed out? you'll just have to be the person in charge of the stop watch again.

not actually bothering to have your go in rounders and cricket. everyone's sitting down. nobody notices.

your ball has gone "missing" in the bushes during outdoor tennis. you're going to have to hunt for it for fifteen minutes, possibly half an hour until the teacher remembers.

not so much of a cheat. not being able to run anymore because you might be sick.

milking an injury. i get nose bleeds at the drop of a hat. whilst incredibly messy, they dont hurt. usually good to get the rest of the lesson off.

faking an injury. falling over is funny in real life but painful and potentially life threatening in PE.

being so 'late' coming from the last lesson so that you have to catch everyone up on the field / gym. faffing around for half an hour because no one is supervising you changing.

but never use the forgotten pe kit excuse. there's always a scummy box in the office of lost clothes for you to borrow.
(ladyintheradiator, Wed 25 Nov 2009, 21:00, Reply)

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".

:)
(nobuttocks last besmirched the internet on, Wed 25 Nov 2009, 18:30, Reply)

mr lloyd - aka mr spock
There was absolutely no way to avoid the showers! - the creepy thing about our PE teacher was he'd be waiting for us at the other end with a clipboard and pen....ticking and scribbling away - i'd love to know what he was writing...the freak!
(ali_bongo, Wed 25 Nov 2009, 16:17, 4 replies)

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.
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Wed 25 Nov 2009, 16:08, 3 replies)

Lord of the Flings..
Whilst at secondary school, I did like to think myself quite the ambidextrous athlete; I took part in Athletics, Football, Hockey, Cross Country, Volleyball, Basket Ball and my favourite Rugby!

We had the obligatory school team and tour bus. Regular practice had honed our skills to the max, every other night we would all meet up and run around on a rain soaked pitch getting very dirty, all in preparation for the county cup competition that was looming ever closer.

The Saturday finally came and speaking on behalf of everyone involved we were physically and mentally ready. We arrived to this magical place where it just seemed to be never ending pitches far as the eye could see (somewhere in Northampton I think). The testosterone of a mini bus full of 15 year olds could be seen (and smelt) in the air, eager for our first proper match.

Quick change later and we were ready, words of encouragement from the PE teacher “not all about winning, blah, have fun, blah” you get the point. To which followed possibly the most one sided game of Rugby ever staged. Now I am not saying we were shit, we were monumentally awful, if you would care to imagine a bunch of one legged, blind, thalidomide’s running (ok Hopping) around trying not only to throw the ball but to catch it and carry it to the other end of the field without being mown down buy ‘so called other boys our age’ emphasis on the OUR AGE part there, utter bollocks! Full beards, tattoos and I am sure some of the mums with buggies on the touch line were actually partners/wives. Imagine the scenes from Lord of the rings Orc army bearing down on you, one particular Ogre of a manbeast had managed to perfect a way of launching me and my team mates with one simple flick of his wrist, I personally did much research on this and trust me it was no fluke.

The painful first half ended and the oranges were replaced by Plasters and Morphine, all I could think about other than the pain was ‘halfway there now’

Approaching the end of the second half of the arse raping we were just going for the consolation try and yes failing miserably. Finally the final whistle went and a collective sigh of relief was heard from us all. But being brought up well we congratulated the Orc army on their success collectively shaking hands and nodding in approval, except for my friend Gareth, who decided to approach the Orc Chieftain and bellowed “you’re a big cunt aren’t ya, no wonder your mum is so loose” and before he could crack the sausage up a tunnel joke he received a nice pair of shiny black eyes and a broken nose, from what must be the biggest forehead since Ant from Ant n Dec. Credit where it’s due though, Gareth didn’t falter (After he got up of course) he apologised with the epic “Sorry, I was just kidding, if I am honest I have the up most respect for you I thought you inbreds were only good for playing banjos in a sinister way and man raping city boys”.

It was at this point we realised we really should of gone to an athletics competition because Roger Banisters mile record was shattered running to and locking himself into the team coach. The PE teacher though was thoroughly impressed with our ‘Efforts’ come to think of it we didn’t do much Rugby after that?

Length? Far too long but chicks seem to dig it?
(MudButton does not mean to offend but......, Wed 25 Nov 2009, 15:41, Reply)

The most famous sports lesson in cinema history
www.youtube.com/watch?v=v3cayRMnVb8
(lolwhites, Wed 25 Nov 2009, 15:39, 3 replies)

Come on then. Explain the offside rule.
My dad, bless him, used to get frustrated as fuck trying to do this to me.
I also had problems understanding the clocks going backwards and forwards thing, but that's a whole other ball game...
(Bear Pookie The Frankly Challenged. Halloween is coming to town., Wed 25 Nov 2009, 15:09, 14 replies)

Perverse Education
Once we had an assignment to get in groups and make up a short aerobics routine for the rest of the PE class to join in. at the time I was best friends with the “cool” girl in class, the one who smoked, and whose parents would supply her with cigarettes and alcohol. She wasn’t exactly rebellions, she was a pretty nice girl actually but she had an older brother at school who was a bit of a rebel and who hung out with the “bad crowd”.
I think for this reason the teachers were a bit intimidated by her. So when it came to watching another group’s aerobic routine, Nic (for that was “cool” girl’s name) kept messing about and bumping into me (see, not exactly rebellious). Even though it was clearly her and not innocent awayfromthenumbers, the PE teachers decided it would be best to scream at me in front of everyone and order me out of the gym… out onto the playground… in my shorts and t shirt… in the middle of winter… with a mobile full of sixth formers looking on. And they locked the door - booooo. When PE was over they took me into their office and yelled at me until…yes…I cried. At the grand age of 15- wooooo!

There was also the token pervy teacher. She used to enforce showering. Once two classmates didn’t shower and when teacher realised, she kept all of us there in the changing rooms to watch them run through the showers naked. This same teacher once insisted on putting my hair into a ponytail for me, and whilst stroking my hair randomly said she wished I was her daughter- slightly unexpected as I’d never spoken to her except “yes” at register call.

We also had giant baggy blue and white striped shorts with a faded smelly pink t shirt for the unlucky one who forgot their PE kit. Didn’t like them.
( awayfromthenumbers, Wed 25 Nov 2009, 14:39, Reply)

My old economics teacher always said...
"Those who can, do.
Those who can't, teach.
Those who can't teach, teach P.E."
(The Kwyjibo A big, dumb, balding North American ape., Wed 25 Nov 2009, 14:12, 2 replies)

Dogs eat dog
Our school was ahead of the game when it came to making sure pupils weren't victimised by the system. You didn't fail tests, you just didn't pass them. 'Could try harder' was about the worst thing teachers could say about you.

Our PE staff were not happy with these new emerging ideas, and set out to ensure that the rot didn't spread to their area of teaching. Competition wasn't just encouraged, winning was the only result that counted. It often didn't matter how you won, just as long as you won.

In football and rugby, there were no such things as fouls. Bodyline bowling was taught in cricket. Coming first at cross country running was often determined by the winners friends who bunked lessons to ambush the other runners, who might be a possible threat.

This method of teaching came to a halt one lesson, when one half played football, while the other half played hockey. One footballer was taken to hospital with a broken leg and ankle from a particularly nasty tackle and one hockey player was carted off with a shattered eye socket.

The truth about the win-at-all-costs method of teaching came out during the inquiry into the accidents and the two teachers were fired.

Despite the fact that we'd come home black and blue from some lessons, we much preferred them to the the dance lessons that replaced them.
(Unit, Wed 25 Nov 2009, 13:47, 1 reply)

"Dead" Teacher
In juniors my year was split into two classes somehow, looking back perhaps to a shortage of kids? anyways the older members of the year were in one class while the younger (including me, august bday you see) were in a class with the eldest of the year below, fucked up i know :-S.

one day we were playing rounders on the school field when we heard screaming and a lot of commotion from further along the field, where the older half were playing cricket with their moustachio'd, monobrow sporting teacher. he was hurling a rock hard plastic ball at the batter while trying to teach a very rudimentary game of cricket to a very disinterested class.

most had apparently been unable to return the ball much as it was harder and heavier than the crappy bat he'd supplied them with but then Wayne had a try and caught a beauty, driving the ball full pelt ar Teachers 'goolies'. The scream we heard was him crumpling into a heap. A few girls then ran towards our teacher Miss Gofton; crying, and telling her that "Wayne had killed Mr McKay".

As 10 year olds this was slightly distressing as usually a hit to the knackers meant a lot of rolling around and 'checking', with the obligatory "no more (eh) kids for you then" joke, but he didnt shift from his foetal position. Miss Gofton got him up and took him to the nurse and the story became legend but didnt end there.

Mr McKay left the school at the end of that year and nothing was heard of him for years, until he turned up a junior teacher next to our comp. He was walking his class to the big hall for some singing thingy one xmas when we spotted him and Wayne with a cheeky grin inquired "Fancy a game of cricket, Sir?", he looked first with puzzlement then recognition and laughed his (maybe prosthetic) balls off.

Sense of humour is a must for teachers i think, else you're on to a loser..... and PE was always mint
(Monkeystrumpet monkey. Monkey, MONKEY!!!, Wed 25 Nov 2009, 13:43, Reply)

Revenge is a dish best served to someone half your size.
Long time reader, first time poster. Hello all!

Getting people to tell stories about PE teachers is a bit like shooting fish in a barrel, especially when that forum is Internet based, but anyway, here is mine.

When I was at secondary school we had a PE teacher called Mr. Ravensdale (Even his name sounds "hard"!) who was well know for being a bit of a hard man amongst the kids. I wasn't amazing at PE, neither was I terrible, just one of the many faces in the crowd, but I could take active part in any game that was thrown my way.

So, this one cold and wet winter day we are playing football, two teams, usual hoohah. Mr. Ravensdale decides that to balance out the teams he will play both referee and an active part in the team that I am playing for.

The game progresses in the usual fashion, lots of running about as a large unruly mob, until the ball breaks a short distance before me and I realise that should I get to it, and give it a right wellie, it might even hit the back of the net! Head down, running as fast as I can, I hurtle toward the loose ball and my moment of fleeting glory. Sadly, unbeknownst to me, Mr. Ravensdale has spotted his opportunity to claim his moment of glory too. We both arrive simultaneously at the ball and crash into each other. Hard. We both go down in a tangle of arms and legs, and I find myself counting the stars floating before my eyes. Mr. Ravensdale is not happy. Not happy at all. He gets back to his feet and suggests that perhaps I would like to change sides, though being as fast on the mental ball as I was hoping to be on the actual ball, I turn down his kind offer, sensing that hard tackles might be in my future should I relent.

The game continues.

Mr. Ravensdales continues to suggest that I perhaps I would like to change sides.

I decline.

In a fit of inspiration Mr. Ravensdale realises that all that is required is for HIM to switch sides instead, and does so. Uh oh, I think. In an act of sheer self preservation I spend the rest of the match avoiding going anywhere near the damn ball, until he has to finally blow the whistle and send us back to the safety and warmth of the showers. Phew, I think, bullet dodged! Not so, as we trudge off the field he lines up the ball as I walk past and kicks it as hard as he can, straight at me, hard enough for it to knock me off my feet and leave a bruise the size of Nebraska on my thigh. Fighting back tears of anger I walked back to the showers, though I took this "medicine" from him and never complained to parents or teachers alike.

The only thing he achieved was to badly hurt a 13 year old boy and any respect that entire class might have had for him.

The universe, and karma, however, had other plans. I didn't see it myself, but he left a year later after, rumour has it, he was given a thrashing by the metalwork teacher (20 years his senior) for attacking another young chap in the hallway.

Length? A bit long for a virgin!
(DoomDalek Purple is a fruit!, Wed 25 Nov 2009, 13:43, 1 reply)

Swimming with special kids
In middle school, due to a lack of swimming pool on site, we used to have to trek to the school for children with disabilities around the corner to use theirs.

Highlights from this include:
A kid with Downs Syndrome pressing his nose and raging hard on up against the floor to ceiling window.
Watching the kids in wheelchairs chasing each other around their playground.

There were more but as I'm getting old, I can't remember them.
(Angio can smell your fear just by looking at you., Wed 25 Nov 2009, 13:33, 2 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.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Wed 25 Nov 2009, 12:14, 5 replies)

The Eton Wall Game.
Apparently a proper goal hasn't been scored in over 100 years. The PE teacher must be terrible.

Edit: it has a wikipedia entry, the rules are insane: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eton_wall_game
(The Empress it seems you CAN polish a turd!, Wed 25 Nov 2009, 11:58, 6 replies)

Trained Killer?
Did you ever feel like your PE teacher was trying to inflict pain, suffering and death upon your teenage person?

Did you ever think that perhaps your PE teacher was trained in the inflicting of pain, suffering and death upon your teenage person?

One of our PE teachers, Mr Utku, was. He went back to Turkey for two years to do his National Service where he was taught how to inflict pain, suffering and death. Which he used to great effect on his return to teaching.*

(*may not necessarily be true but occasionally seem to be.)
(Angio can smell your fear just by looking at you., Wed 25 Nov 2009, 11:54, Reply)

Dear God the PE teachers at my old secondary
When deciding to become a PE teacher, one should always consider the resentment felt towards you by the pupils you will end up teaching, and therefore it may be advisable to choose a different career if you have an unfortunate surname.

Apparently, Mr. Humpage didn't think that far ahead.

Honest to god, that was his name, and it didn't help that he had a particular fondness for bright pink jumpsuits rather than the traditional shorts and t-shirt. Oh, and he was bald. Not that there's anything wrong with that, it's just it doesnt help the overall image.

Two particular moments stand out involving this mad-man. The first was an unusually cold day in April or May, I forget which. It was also raining. Rather than enjoy the delights of the marginally warmer and marginally dryer gym, he decided we should all go outisde and play softball. So we did.

Or rather we would have done if he hadn't decided that now would be a good time to regale us with tales of his childhood. Apparently he was particuarly fond of his father, mostly it would seem due to regularly administered beatings. Make sense of that. We certainly couldn't, and bear in mind we're standing around in summer kit (thin polo shirt), in the driving rain, in a cold field in Lancashire. This went on for about half an hour, so it was no surprise when a good portion of the group went home in the afternoon feeling quite ill, whilstt the rest of us sniffled our way through the rest of the day.

Secondtime concerned litter on the field. Apparently there was a lot of it, which was to be expected since thats where everyone went at breaks and dinner, and there were only two bins, at opposite ends of the field. The worst of this was the drinks cans which practically flew out of the single vending machine in the summer. these would get chewed up by the big tractor/lawnmower thing and create lots of bits of sharp metal. In fairness this was a concern, but his method of dealing with it was... unique. Rather than getting those who didnt have their kit to pick up all the cans, he did it himself. He then came into asssembly, whith two or three bin bags full, emptied them all over the stage, ranted for ten minutes, then afterwards, got his form (for he was also a form tutor)to pick them all up, thus enforcing a lost break and some undeserved labour on a group of kids, whilst endangering their hands with lots of sharp metal. We saw it as counterproductive somehow.

Very odd guy.

Must dash, more later.
(friedel, Wed 25 Nov 2009, 11:41, Reply)

The day I almost got half the PE class in detention
I appear to be one of the oddities on this site (why change a habit of a life time...?) and I actually enjoyed PE, probably due to the fact that I played tennis and rugby outside of school and therefore possessed a level of fitness and hand-eye coordination that many of the other kids did not.

So picture the scene, 30 or so boys freezing their 'nads off, more interested in staying warm than listening to their teacher trying to explain the rules and intricacies of rugby union. The only kid who understood (or cared) what Mr Utku was saying was me.

After a brief practice in tackling technique in which more than a few accusations of homosexuality were liberally traded and a bit of kicking practice, we were split into two teams and the game began. Very quickly, my team realised that the quickest and easiest way to victory was just to hand me the ball and keep out of my way. The other team were rather lacklustre mostly because it was very cold and only made half-hearted attempts to stop me.

After half a dozen or so trys in as many minutes, Mr Utku offered some "encouragement" to the other team in the form of "If Angio scores the next try, you are all in detention". It still took them half the pitch and three guys to bring me down, but thank god they did.

You see my problem is that I am insanely competitive, definitely not a gracious winner and I will rub your face in your defeat so much so that I did try to score (this wasn't helped by the fact that my team was immune from the detention threat and was baying for the other team's blood). Had I scored, I might have become a little bit of a social leper (amongst other things) if the decidedly unfriendly comments of the opposition team members were to be believed.
(Angio can smell your fear just by looking at you., Wed 25 Nov 2009, 11:37, Reply)

Spider Teacher Spider Teacher Does what ever a spider teacher does
It involves A PE Teachers so I am sure it counts.

We had famously lazy PE teachers one would drive up to the edge of the football pitch and then sit in his car directing the game with his horn or flashing his lights. Why be a PE Teacher if you are that lazy.

But this story is about another of the staff who for obvious reasons will remain nameless. It turned out that one of the PE teachers was having an affair with the wife of the history teacher, which is great news in itself but even better is the way it was found out.

One of the pupils mothers worked as a nurse at A&E and one evening the PE teacher was brought in with a broken leg. Apparently he had been "role playing" with the history teachers wife and whilst she was on the bed he had jumped off a wardrobe, but being large he had bounced straight of the bed and onto the floor breaking his leg. Firstly the history teacher whose wife he was sleeping with had to help take him to hospital which must have been an interesting car journey.

But much much better was the fact that as part of his role playing the Teacher had been dressed as Spiderman.

Queue much singing of the theme tune as he walked past in the corridor.
(lordofallhesurveys How appropriate you fight like a cow, Wed 25 Nov 2009, 11:28, 3 replies)

Twonking
I remember telling several schoolmates that the PE teacher had come up with a new activity. It was called Twonking and was very popular in Scotland. It consisted of basically every boy having one arm tied behind his back and on the other hand a boxing glove. The pupils were made to wear scuba flippers also. The pupils would each take a spot in the gym hall approx 5m apart and when the lights were flicked out you had to flail around in the dark in an attempt to knockout your opponent. The flippers were just an aid to hear any approaching foe. Last man standing won. Most people didn’t believe me, but I made fatty Chris Pybuss cry.
( p4c_m4n There, I said it!, Wed 25 Nov 2009, 11:01, 4 replies)

I have a couple of gripes...
Knock out:
Once when we were playing basketball, someone, never did find out who, decided to trip me as I was running resulting in me hitting the gym wall head first and being knocked out cold. I came round to find myself lying on a bench in the changing room covered in blood and vomit. The P.E. teacher had carried me out of the gym then got on with the game! Only after the lesson had finished did he take me to the sick room. One of the ladies from the admin office took one look at me and called for an ambulance. I was kept in hospital for a couple of nights for observation as apparently a head injury can be quite serious. Who'd a thunk it? Not Mr P.E. teacher that's for sure.

Cricket:
I love cricket but was never given a chance to play at school. The first P.E. lesson of summer term, us first years were invited to bowl a ball at a gym horse positioned end on to us at the other end of the hall. The teacher stood by taking notes. It transpired that all of the boys that hit the target would get to play cricket for the next 5 years whilst those who missed, like me, got to play rounders or go cross-country running. The school's loss I feel as I've subsequently taught myself to bowl like Shane Warne against my back gate. Well, a bit like him.
( stopmeandslapme Cometh the hour, cometh your mum, Wed 25 Nov 2009, 10:51, Reply)

A "scissor pass" in Rugby
Our PE teacher, as well as the typical dodgy glance in the shower, seemed to assume that as teenage boys we all lived and breathed sport. More so this would mean we knew all the rules etc.

So it came as no surprise that my first Rugby lesson ended badly.

I knew nothing of Rugby other than it had a weird shaped ball and it looked like people would get hurt. Sadly neither did my equally stocky friend Michael. Of course add to this that the teacher assumed we did know what we were doing so glossed over any explanations.

We were told to do a "scissor pass". This meant standing about 10m apart and running forward at about 45 degree intersecting angles to one another. As we "passed" the one with the ball (me) would pass it to the other team mate (Michael).

The whistle was blown and we set off like stampeding elephants. Both of us 6ft tall, 13 stone running full pelt to a point where we would pass the ball.

Where it goes wrong is that dip shit teacher glossed over any explanation of HOW to conduct the "pass", specifically who would run in front and who would run behind.

SMACK! The noise of our heads colliding as we sprinted directly into each other was like hitting a plank of wood with a mallet. We both fell to the ground temporarily knocked out, the ball held by neither of us.

Somehow despite the concussion we both got a bollocking for "not paying attention" to his explanation and despite being bigger than anyone else in the class we were apparantly not good enough to "play for the school team". Funny thing is, if I'd thought there was any risk I might have ended up having to play for the school team I'd have put in less effort!
(golddust QOTW now revolves around being a cunt, Wed 25 Nov 2009, 10:45, 3 replies)

PE teacher golden shower
We had a PE teacher called Timmy. He just couldn't handle unruley kids and we spent all of our PE lessons trying to upset him.
Then one day he got up the courage to give a kid detention.
The kid waited for him after the lesson standing half way up a flight of stairs. As Timmy walked past the kid pissed on Timmy's head.
Timmy had a break down and never worked at the school again.
(Cat2903, Wed 25 Nov 2009, 10:06, 1 reply)

The crowning sporting achievement of my school career
I went to an all-boys school that insisted on teaching Rugby instead of a proper sport during games lessons; because obviously what a group of hormonally-imbalanced teenage boys needs when robbed of the company of women is to play the most homoerotic sport imaginable. You'll be pleased to learn that mass buggery is not the achievement of the title, however.

I've always displayed an almost preternaturally bad degree of aptitude towards sport, unless you count dancing and shouting at the TV when the football's on. This was compounded, when playing Rugby, by my phenomenally poor eyesight (-6.5 in each eye) and the fact that I didn't get contact lenses until I lost my glasses in the moshpit at a Megadeth gig when I was 15. It didn't take long for the bastards I went to school with to work out that skipping past my attempts at a tackle were as easy as running quite fast and assuming that I'd throw myself at the blur where they'd been a moment ago. And obviously I didn't get passed to much.

So I was bloody amazed when the stupidly-shaped ball ended up in my hands after a mass collision, with voices I recognised as the group of wankers I was assigned to co-operate with that day exhorting me to "RUN, BLOODY RUN YOU BLIND TWAT", so I did. I RAN like there were FUCKING WOLVES with SEVERAL KINDS OF RABIES behind me.

The WRONG WAY

By the time I was tackled - by one of my lot, obviously - I was almost under our posts. Not that I would have noticed them if I'd managed to run right under them. I maintain Zemckis got half his ideas for Forrest Gump from watching me that day. I was not a popular boy in the showers, something I've struggled to maintain to this day.

Length? About 40 yards, apparently. Never again.
(Darth Foxtrot A one-man army dedicated to making fetch happen, Wed 25 Nov 2009, 9:00, 9 replies)

The Loneliness of the long distance runner
A chance to pearoast this...

There's nothing quite like P.E. for separating the strong from the weak, and even sorting them into a pecking order. The particular bête noir in this case was the Cross Country Run - out of the school gates, along the gully to the park, along the canal, down the hill, through the wood, across the playing field and back to the sports hall. Two and a half miles, come rain, snow, sleet or hail.

Like most people with an ounce of sense I figured this for more of a "taking part" than a "try your utmost" type lesson, and so used to regularly come in the last 5 out of 30 in about 26-28 minutes. The other five were a couple of other smart-and-uninterested types, and three fat kids. In retrospect an attitude of "we're too good for this" probably didn't endear us to anyone.

Now I didn't have slope-browed, knuckle dragging bullies. I got a set of smart, easily bored sociopaths who identified early on that it's more fun and less danger to bully other kids than set fire to pets. So one fine frosty morning, as we're all milling aimlessly prior to the start, 5 kids approach me and the other strollers.

"We've got a new game, lads!" they announce gleefully. I get that sinking feeling. "It's really simple. Whoever out of us you don't beat, gives you a beating. If you don't beat any of us, we'll all give you a pasting. If you beat all of us, you get off scott-free!" Chortling to themselves and smacking fists into palms, they stroll over to the start line.

Now, to be honest, while they carried themselves with confidence they probably weren't that good. But I didn't know that, and we were so consistently bad they must have figured it was a done deal.

"Go!" yelled the PE teacher, heading indoors for a cup of tea. I suspect that nowadays you couldn't get away with letting 30 young boys run off into the local woods unsupervised, but those were simpler times when a paedophile was just encouragement to run faster.

I was first to the gully. Third as we reached the canal - so far, so good; the two who'd passed me weren't "game" players. I settled into an easy rhythm along the towpath, surprised to discover that I'm not actually that bad at running. A glance behind me as we came to the end of the canal stretch revealed one of THEM closing on me. Nooo!

I stepped up the pace. So did he. For the next 3/4 of a mile he was right on my shoulder but I refused to let him pass, my vision narrowing to a tunnel. Finally he gasped, "Christ! You're giving it a proper go. I'm out - I won't beat you up." I glanced back and he nodded at me with something like respect as he passed.

I was flagging now and more runners came up behind me as we wound through the woods, but none were my nemeses so past me they went. Just the playing field to go, there's Sir in the distance sitting in his deckchair checking times.

I crossed the finish line in 6th with a time of 18 minutes 50 seconds. My fellow victims, it turned out, were either insufficiently motivated or genuinely crap at running, as they got the shit kicked out of them.

Of course, by the next week it was back to beatings for looking at them funny, but just for a little while life was good.
( The Light in Chains don't touch the Pope's boner, Wed 25 Nov 2009, 8:32, 4 replies)

forgot this
For some reason my games teacher thought i was great at rugby (i kind of was in actual fact) and would add my name to the list to join the team every year. I enjoyed it but there was no way i was spending good reading time on running about in a field. If i didnt catch it i'd have got detentions for not going.

Every year.

I regret not doing it now... very occasionally.
(DreddPirateBob has watched every scifi film ever on, Wed 25 Nov 2009, 7:47, Reply)

Why does everyone hate PE?
PE was my favourite lesson of the week. We got to run around, make the fat kids look bad and generally not learn anything. It was brilliant. I loved it so much that I took a Physical Education A level, which turned out to be entirely classroom based for 2 years. Such a shame
(Dr Zoidberg is going for a scuttle, Wed 25 Nov 2009, 7:44, 9 replies)

Basketball! Football! Cross-country! History!
PE was always great at my first senior school. I went to a grammar school in Lincolnshire, and we had perhaps the most memorable teacher of my school career. His name was Gerald "Chesty" Nash.

Loud, piss-taking, relentlessly physical and cheerful. Gruff, ancient, strong and horribly fit and healthy.

Highlights include the time I was hit in the face with a basketball, passed to me at somewhere around the speed of sound, various cricketing mishaps, and enforced cross-country in ankle deep snow. I loved his lessons.

He was our history teacher also, and he brought the past to life with a similar force and energy. Hitting students with books, bouncing around the classroom, picking up on all the jokes and attempted misbehaviours.

The guy was a legend around the school. Popular with teachers and children.

He's long retired now, but I like to consider him a key contributor to my developing personality.

Thanks Chesty...
( disasterprone "Pyjamas caused the Holocaust", Wed 25 Nov 2009, 6:28, Reply)

My moment
As will be familiar to many UK b3tans, the first PE lesson of your first year at secondary school will largely define your athletic status for the next 5 years, especially playing football: loud cocky and confident - striker. Tall or thick looking (preferably both) - goalkeeper etc

Being a somewhat quiet, sturdily-built young chap I was designated as a defender; meaning I was to stand around and not to interfere unless the ball came really close to me.

But over the years I actually became quite useful in the position. I made tackles with confidence, harassed any opposition player with the ball quite well, made safe passes to protect my teams lead, not too shabby.

Then one day in my fourth year I wandered out of my comfort zone and somehow ended up in the opposing team's half of the football field. A ball came loose, both the 20-something PE teacher and my best friend (the two being on the opposition team) were both inches away from taking posession; losing all reason I dived in.

Somehow, miraculously, I'd taken the ball from both of them! They were on a heap on the floor whereas I was standing and the ball was mine. We were playing rush keeper - I knew that their goal was open. This was it. This was my time to shine; I was about to score the winning goal! Head-down, I whipped my foot forward with Thor-like power and struck the ball beautifully.

I didn't take geography at school, maybe if I had instead of choosing Drama I might've been a little more aware of my surroundings. I didn't realise that running and tackling for the ball had covered about 10 metres in ground.

I almost hit the corner flag.

Bollocks.
(SpongeGavShitPants, Wed 25 Nov 2009, 2:39, 2 replies)

footie fluke
was on one knee tying my shoelace (thankfully not being forced to gobble the teacher as usual) facing the opponent's goal just inside the penalty box. keeper hoofs it out, bounces straight off my head and in the net. ha!

I was kidding about the gobblage.
(injektilo smoking the weed that killed elvis, Wed 25 Nov 2009, 2:28, 4 replies)