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This is a question Bullies

My mum told me to stand up to bullies. So I did, and got wedgied every day for a month. I hated my boss.

Suggested by Mariam67

(, Wed 13 May 2009, 12:27)
Pages: Latest, 13, 12, 11, 10, 9, ... 1

This question is now closed.

I've been waiting to tell this story
When I as at School, long ago.

There was a boy who I shouldn't name called Paul Bentley

He was bullied lots.

One day before the teacher had arrived in classroom, a naughty child had drawn this on the whiteboard

All very entertaining I'm sure you'll agree.
The naughty child then shouted out

'Bentley, Bentley! Draw the pubes! Draw the pubes!'

Bentley was reluctant, he thought the teacher would walk in just as he started to draw.

Eventually he was cajoled into stepping up to the whiteboard, marker in hand.

'Draw the pubes! Draw the pubes!' chanted the class.

What Bentley drew relegated him to the world of the bullied forever. When he stepped away from the board this is what we saw.

(, Wed 13 May 2009, 13:24, 34 replies)
Being bullied by an eleven year old
I recently moved in with my long-suffering girlfriend, in doing so I’ve inherited a couple of stepsons. Non-identical twins in fact.

The transition from friendly bonhomie while I was first dating their mother to becoming an authoritarian figure now that I’m living there has gone remarkably smoothly, with very little petulance over the change in status quo. I’ve grown very attached to the little chaps, most of the time they’re great kids and a pleasure to be around, but occasionally something will kick off and their competitive spirit will force them into small acts of rebelliousness against the new regime.

Of the two boys “F” is the prototype brooding alpha male. He’s a popular kid who loves sports and being the centre of attention, it’s also fair to say he’s had the hardest time coming to terms with someone else being in close physical proximity to his mother.

One afternoon whilst the twins, their mother and I were sat in the car, “F” expressed his displeasure in a very succinct way, stretching the very limits of sophistication for eleven year old wit and dropping the ultimate in wisecracks for which there simply is no answer to.

“You’re gay”

At that point both boys dissolve into teary laughter. The resolve of my authority was being tested and “F” knew it. My girlfriend turned her head toward me and raised an eyebrow. The bar had been lifted.

“You’re gay. G-A-Y. Gay”

How can I respond to that? Do I challenge him to an arm-wrestle? Do I open my beer bottles with my teeth? How do you best a physically confident eleven year old who in all probability is going to grow bigger than you within a couple of years?

I thought long and hard. Whatever I said next didn’t just have to top the last remark in the here and now, it had to stamp my authority on the situation for ever after. I took a deep breath and replied.

“Your mum”.
(, Fri 15 May 2009, 12:58, 14 replies)
I am a chubby ginger nerd, not gay, but fairly camp
I don't like sports, and was sent to an all-boys secondary school.

The bullies could smell me from miles away.

My entire school life was a misery. I was beaten, tortured, abuse was hurled at me from every direction, I was once bottled in the street for being ginger.

My mother called the school, who asked me who the bullies were, gave them one stinking detention (and let's face it, these kids probably had one every day anyway) which just fuelled the beatings, and my father did nothing as, apparantly, having your face rubbed in mud builds character.

I went the sensible route of telling people, the stupid route of attempted suicide, even the useless route of acting all friendly to your attackers, but nothing worked.

One day, when I was 16, I got pulled out of school early because my nan had died. In the time it took my mum to pick me up, and drive me home, my dog had also died.

The next day, I arrived at the school gate with a note for my form tutor explaining what had happened, and just asking to keep an eye on me if I got upset all of a sudden.
It was taken out of my pocket by a big fucker called David. He was one of those kids who must have hit puberty around 4 years old, and had a full beard before anyone else had pubes.
He read the note to his friends, ripped it up, and began to tell a delightful story about him having sex with my grandmother's corpse.

I know it is a cliché, but I realy don't remember much of what happened, as it was all a bit of a blur. All I know is that when I was found by the fence in the foetal position, all of David's 'friends' had abandoned him, and he was lying face down by the kerb, screaming, attempting to gather up his teeth.

It slowly came out as the school investigated it that I had literally jumped at him, onto his back, and hit him until he had fallen to the ground, then smashed his head against the floor.

I was about to be expelled when my favourite teacher of all time, Mr Wallace, who had, on many occasions councilled me through problems, and who I still consider a friend today, called attention to a folder.
In true 'Miracle on 34th St' fashion, it was emptied onto the head's desk. It contained no less than 100 sheets of paper, each of them chronicalling a bullying/attack incident against me over the course of around 5 years. The bottling to the head, my bag being set alight, being force-fed insects, they were all there, and nobody had done a fucking thing to help me except Mr Wallace, who saved my life.

I make no apoligies for length, but probably should for coming across as a mental-case.
(, Mon 18 May 2009, 0:35, 12 replies)
This moment of office-counter-bullying tom foolery led to the scariest car journey of my life.

It was absolutely fucking buttock-clenchingly, spew-my-lunch, piss-myself repeatedly terrifying. I spent the journey travelling from Brighton to London with my eyes shut, praying to God, Allah, Buddha, and even Lewis Hamilton that I’d get back to the smoke in one piece. I was – in point of fact – a sweaty nervous wreck by the time I was dropped off at Kings Cross (well, more so than I usually am anyway).

But lets go back in time a few days, Marty McFly style...(only without the fucking-my-own-mum subplot, unforunately - my mum was fucking HOT when she was in her twenties)...

I used to work with an absolute cunt named Beverly Hills Cop – a twat from the Home Counties named Edward Murphy who had been brought up on a healthy regime of badger bating, fox hunting and wanking off members of the local young conservatives club in the backrooms of country clubs. The bloke was an absolute grade A, top-of-the-class, colossal, 29 carat, solid gold cunt; he was the king of cuntdom.

Edward Murphy - Beverley Hills Cop to the rest of us - was also a monumental bully and thick as pig shit. He’d got to a pretty high position of seniority in the company I worked for by depositing a nice healthy amount of manfat in the bosses daughter on a regular basis. He was marriage material, apparently. He was one of the family. He was - as far as everyone else in the firm was concerned - absolutely fucking untouchable.

The two of us had been seconded down to Brighton for a week to sort out a presentation to some bigwig client for this sales firm I used to work for. I’d handed in my notice a few weeks previously and really didn’t want to go, but had no fucking choice. I think the boss realised Beverley Hills Cop was too fucking stupid to sort out the contract without a bit of help. So, we’re down in the Brighton office, two twats from London in suits, and Beverly Hills Cop starts acting like Billy Big Balls, ordering the underlings round and generally treating the locals like they were his inferior country hick slaves. He spent the first three days shouting at random people and abusing his I'm-fucking-the-bosses-daughter superpowers. He considered himself something of the practical joker too and thought it would be fucking hillarious, a morale builder, to piss about with people and superglue their possessions to their desks, put superglue on the coat rack, even leave a thin layer of the stuff on somebody's keyboard when they went off for a piss. Oh, how we all laughed while he cack-handedly bullied his way through the staff with the aid of a tube of Loctite...

And he did all of this thinking no one knew it was him, the prick.

Then on the Thursday before the presentation, when it was prepared and ready to roll first thing on the Friday morning, we’re sat round kicking our heels and Beverley Hills Cop strides in, stinking of Lynx Africa and Brylcream, takes me to one side and whispers:

“I’ve just done something so fucking funny – Spanky, you are gonna piss yourself at this!”

“Oh, what have you done, Ed?” I asked.

“Just wait!”

And one of the Brighton peeps, a nice lad named Jim, got up to go to the bogs. And he didn't come back. After awhile one of his mates went looking for him, only to come back moments later to advise Jim was stuck on the bogs.

"Somebody put superglue on the toilet seat," he said wearily. "Jim's nearly got himself free, but he has to go slow or he'll rip his skin off." And he looked directly at Beverly Hills Cop, who was sat at his desk grinning like a twat and trying not to laugh.

Nobody else found it funny - it had been a hard week. The company was going through a rough patch and nobody wanted to complain for fear of having a nice, bright and shiney P45 land on their desk. Eveyone just wanted the weekend to roll round; beer, drugs, the faint possibility of a one night stand with a random stranger - all good clean and wholesome fun.

Beverley Hills Cop came up to me when Jim finally made it back to his desk and gafawed like the cunt he was and showed me the tube of superglue, hidden in the palm of his hand so no one else could see.

"Don't tell anyone - but it was me!" he said. "Just a bit of harmless fun, eh?"

Oh, yeah, really fucking harmless you fucking walking shit stain, cunty cock sucking, horse-shagging mong! But he was, as I've said, untouchable. I could hardly go to the bosses and complain.

After a few minutes Beverley Hills Cop put on his jacket and fucked off back to his hotel. One of the locals sidled up to me:

“That cunt has made our lives a misery for a week, Spanky. Isn’t there anything you can do?”

I explained Beverley Hills Cop was untouchable. That he was fucking the bosses daughter and if I made a complaint about him fuck all would happen. They seemed dispondent. But then I remembered something, a revelation that'd been staring me in the face, something so fucking obvious I'd completely discounted it:

I was a bigger cunt than this Home Counties tosspot.

And he’d actually put an idea in my head. “I’m just popping out to pick up some stuff,” I said, grabbing my coat and wondering off to do a spot of shopping.

I then proceeded to abuse my expenses account to the degree your average MP would’ve been proud of and went back to my hotel, chuckling like a moron.

In the morning of the big sales presentation I got in early, sat at the window and waited until I saw Beverley Hills Cop walk up the street. Then I set the trap while the locals watched, chuckling.

“You sure about this, Spanky?” One asked.

I shurugged: “As my old grandmother used to say – fuck it. Anyway, I'm leaving soon - if any shit comes about from this, I'll just say it was me.”

And then we sat back and waited.

Beverley Hills Cop came into the office, strode over to his desk, saw what I’d placed there, reached out and picked it up firmly in one hand and started shouting. And when he realised the thing was smeared in superglue and he couldn’t let go, he started shouting some more. Then he panicked. Then he started to whimper about the presentation he had to give in fifteen minutes. Then he threatened to have everyone fired.

“Don’t think it would look good if you went back to London and told um what’s happened, what with you doing something similar yesterday,” I reasoned, taking him to one side. “Tell you what – I’ll lead the presentation. You can sit there and cover your hand with a folder or something and we’ll sort out getting that thing off afterwards.”

Beverley Hills Cop considered this - the tiny cogs were turning in his inbred brain. Eventually, he shrugged and agreed.

And I did the presentation, the row of suits from this Sussex-based property firm sitting round the table looking professional and competent, while Beverley Hills Cop sat in a corner, watching, nodding, adding the occasional: “Hmmm, yes!” while hiding his hand under a strategically placed and rather posh leather document holder he'd found.

After the presentation the suits stand up, say they’ll consider the pitch, and reach out to shake my hand, as is customary in this sort of situation. And then the lead suit, a woman in a sharp business suit who would’ve scared the shit out of Helen Mirren in Prime Suspect, turned to Beverely Hills Cop, and said:

“I think we can do business,” and she extended her hand to him.

And Beverley Hills Cop went pale as a fucking bedsheet. He reached up with his left hand. The woman stood there resolutely offering her right hand. I stood by my whiteboard enjoying seeing the fucker squirm, but then he did something horrible, something awful, something that made my jaw drop slackly open.


He removed the folder and showed her his other hand; he could've just said it was busted or something! The thick cunt!

“Just a bit of office fun,” he said with a nervous chuckle.

The MD of this major client looked down at his hand, and all credit to her, her only reaction was to raise her eyebrows slightly and, after a beat, said: “Indeed – I just hope you wern't planning to offer me that to sweeten the deal,” and then she spun on her heel and strode out the room followed by her entourage. "We'll get back to you early next week."

And we were alone... wondering if that had really just happened.

I glanced over at Beverley Hills Cop, he glanced back at me, and we shared a silent moment of pant-shitting realisation that this could well and truly fuck up an awful lot of hard work.

Thankfully, it didn’t. We never heard anything about it again and we
nailed the contract. I didn't give a shit about Beverley Hills Cop, but alot of people's jobs rested on the contract going through.

We went back to the office, gathered up our stuff, tried to get the damn thing off Beverly Hills Cop’s hand, found it had actually melted a bit and fused onto his skin, and then decided to head straight back to London so he could have a word with the bosses daughter and try and head off any problems: he'd get rid of the damn thing back at his place.

The Brighton peeps could hardly contain themselves at the sight of this prick striding out the office with his briefcase in one hand, suited and booted, and this fucking object attached to the other. Even as we closed the door we heard the sporadic outbreak of laughter. Beverely Hills Cop fumed, I smiled broadly back at him:

"Just a bit of harmless fun, eh?"

We walked over to his car in silence.

"Well," I said as we clambered into the motor - he had to drive on account of me being a thick twat who'd never learned how. "Maybe you should think twice before using superglue yourself in future..."

He didn't respond, he sat in fuming silence all the way back. He was angry as fuck and scared we'd loose the contract.

But not as scared as me.

Travelling in a turbo-injection company car driven by an angry sales rep in a hurry who's got an eighteen inch dayglo pink dildo glued to his steering wheel hand is, to put it bluntly,




(And you should've seen some of the looks we got from people in other cars on the way. The sight of a man driving, obviously fuming, holding a HUGE bright pink plastic penis, sat next to another man in the passenger seat who was almost in tears must've led to some interesting conversations and lots of jumping to the wrong conclusions that day speeding up the northbound carriageway of the M23)...
(, Thu 14 May 2009, 11:06, 11 replies)
Sometimes you have to act.
A few years back when I was in my early 20s I was walking along the street in my hometown. I happened to notice a little girl skipping along towards me on the other side of the road, she was all pigtails and freckles and smiles and couldn't have been more than 7 or 8. As she skipped towards the entrance to the park 2 lads, clearly several years her elders, emerged from the park and she was unable to avoid them and crashed into one of them.
I stood astonished as the scene unfolded in front of me and these 2 lads started shoving this little girl around. When I saw one of the lads lifting his hand a fully punching the girl in the face I saw red mist descending. I couldn't stand and watch this anymore. I crossed the road and my fists started flailing and boots started swinging. I was like a wildman. I fought with a savagery that I didn't think I had and I have to tell you guys.
Between the 3 of us we totally kicked the crap out of that little girl.
I even got her lollypop.
(, Mon 18 May 2009, 17:45, 6 replies)
Controlling bullies
My eldest daughter was bullied at secondary school, The perpetrator was a fat ugly dim badly-dressed waste of DNA from a reputedly "hard" family. As my then wife was training to be a teacher, she urged, nay begged me to "go through the proper channels" so I did.

The teachers were worse than useless. In their own inimitable self important smug way (like all teachers) they went through the motions and even began to imply that the bullying was somehow my daughter's fault! I'd let my wife attend the meetings, she'd come back with some buzzword-laden "strategy" that they'd come up with and all would be well for a day or so, then my daughter would be back home crying her eyes out terrified to go back. When she started stuttering, screaming when the 'phone went (I later discovered that the scumbag had a habit of ringing her just to tell her what was going to happen the next day) I took control.

I arranged a meeting with the laughingly-designated "discipline committee" and the head teacher. I'd checked the relevant law regarding "In loco parentis", assault and battery etc and was ready to do my famous "Control the meeting from the start and PERSONALISE the complaint" strategy* and boy was I ready for them!

The meeting started with the head inroducing himself and the members of the panel. I didn't smile, just looked at each one whilst taking down their names. They didn't like that.

They also didn't like me taking down everything they said, in silence.

They also didn't like me referring to my notes, writing down everything they did (like leaning over to their neighbours and whispering) and demanding "One meeting, if you have anything to say it will be recorded in my notes, otherwise this meeting is over and we'll carry on at the police station".

All the staff were very nervous at the sight of this suited and booted, calm, polite, articulate and above all well-prepared (I'd been a governor at this school just 2 years before) parent rocking their belief in their omnipotence.

The head, after his speech said "Well Mr A****, how do you feel about our revised strategy"?

"It won't work"

"I think you'll find"..........I cut the twat off with

"It won't work because it's not going to happen".

One smarmy twat started to say "I think you'll find......"

I cut HIM off with " Shut up and listen"!

"What is going to happen is this:- YOU (pointing at the head) WILL remove this thug from your school - today".

"I can't do that!"

"In that case I have already instructed my solicitor to issue personal proceedings against each and every teacher that was "In loco parentis" of my daughter when she was assaulted, for professional negligence, I have their names here".

A chorus of "BUT but, I never" etc etc

"Furthermore" I said, calmly "YOU (pointing to the head) are the head of this organisation, therefore the main buck stops with you".

Twat thought I was bluffing.

I never bluff.

The very next LESSON, the dna waste was excluded. After "careful consideration" she was sent to a secure unit school where, two years later she was raped and eventually killed herself.


I've said it before.

Don't fuck with my daughters.

the moral of my story is this, if your kids are being bullied at school go for the teachers PERSONALLY. The spineless smug lazy bastards expect to be cotton-wooled through their cushy career and think they can just sweep anything under the carpet.


Protect the weaker kids, remove the scum and Joe Public will leave you alone. Don't do as above and we'll come for you - personally.
Teachers are all bullies (except Mr A who gave me a love of maths and Engineering, Mr T who was ex military and gave REAL guidelines on behaviour, and Miss B who gave me my love of language.) and expect respect from whoever they meet, just because they are a teacher.

Respect is earned and they, as a profession, have a very long way to go.

*even my boss is impressed when I go into "unreasonable" mode.
(, Fri 15 May 2009, 11:07, 210 replies)
Bullying is natural - all species do it.
Even sticky notes

(, Wed 20 May 2009, 21:34, 8 replies)
Character Building
I desperately needed some spunk and I needed it now.

But I was distracted. It was the first time I'd ever rolled a condom over my cock; a big deal in the life of any young man. I remember looking down at my little fella and thinking: It’s a stick up! and sniggering to myself like a drunken lunatic. The wee chap looked forlorn, scared, almost trembling like a small blind animal in my hand, and he also looked like he was wearing stockings over his head and was about to hold up a bank.

But, back to the job in hand, I thought, and I started pulling the pud furiously. I hate to admit it, but this was an angry wank. There was no enjoyment in this. None at all. So, locked in a cubicle in the bogs at half midnight, having had far too much Skol for a fifteen year old, I wanked furiously to an inevitable, sticky, salty conclusion.

I was on a residential trip to Wales with my school to help 'build our characters'. We’d arrived earlier in the day and set about doing a range of character building trust exercises which culminated in the ultimate test - standing in front of another kid and falling backwards so they could catch you. Fuck that. After five or six kids had sustained what in medical circles they refer to as ‘severely bruised arses’, we gave that up. Then we moved onto some healthy hill walking interspersed with our own inner City twist of chain smoking, spitting, and swearing like pissed up Irish nuns on St. Patricks Day.

The walk was going ok, well, as ok as being forced to march up and down mountains can be when your fifteen and as lazy as fuck, when suddenly something, some horrible wet object landed on my head with a sticky splat. I reached up, thinking a mighty mountain bird had shat on me, and recoiled in horror as I removed a used condom full of spunk from my bonce.

“Urggggghhhhhh!!!” I said, chucking the damn thing onto the unspoilt ground.

And then a load more used johnnies rained down, hitting my mates and I in the ultimate barrage of biological warfare. It was not nice. Not nice at all. And when the barrage stopped we turned to see Rik and his crew laugh at us menacingly. Rik was the uber bully at my all boys comprehensive. A big thick twat who could crush walnuts in his bare hands. He liked nothing more than fucking with everyone and everything - he was our very own James Dean, our very own rebel without a cause; only Rik didn't have a motorbike and had been well and truly tickled with the ugly stick; he had a face like a slapped arse.

“Plenty more where they came from you faggots!” Rik reasoned.
And there were.

We spent the next hour or so trudging and slipping through the mud while a barrage of spunk-filled prophylactics rained down on us – it was like the First World War trenches, only instead of dodging the high explosives we had to contend with little rubber cock socks filled with premium weapons-grade man milk.

And I remember all I kept thinking was: Where the fuck are they getting all this cum from? Rik and his merry band of teenage dad cretins must’ve had testicles the size of cannonballs!

And the solitary teacher we had with us, a newly qualified airhead named Mr James, either chose to ignore what was going on or genuinely didn’t give a fuck. It was a pretty miserable experience. I was remember afterwards feeling lucky that I hadn't inadvertently gotten pregnant.

Later back at the lodge when Mr James and the rest of the teaching staff (the ones who couldn’t be bothered to go mountain trudging) had fucked off to the local, Rik and his posse cracked open the crate of Skol they’d smuggled in with them and set about drinking. Rik sidled up to me and gave me a beer, put one of his butcher-sized arms round me and said:

“No hard feelings, Spanky – but you’ve gotta admit that was funny as fuck, mate.” Oh, yes – Rik was the kind of fucking comedy. I could hardly contain myself from laughing til my sides split. I imagined he’d soon be on stage lobbing used cock raincoats into the crowd.

Oh, how they’d laugh. Oh, how they'd cheer...

I grunted an acknowledgement of just how funny Rik was and pissed off. A plan forming in my booze-addled brain. (I was only fifteen and at this time even a whiff of beer would get me absolutely wankered).

Fast-forward to half past midnight, Rik and his crew are hammered on illicit beer and have retired to their bunks in the big dorm we’d invaded for the week. I’ve sneaked cat burglar style into Rik’s bag and helped myself to a small square foil packet containing something round and rubbery, and I’ve padded off to the bogs...

I return, a little sweaty and red faced from my exertions, holding aloft the still hot crinkly efforts of my labours for all to see like a fisherman proudly displaying a prize fishy catch. Then I tip toe over to Rik asleep in his bunk and place the fucker squarely on his face. He moves a bit, mutters, but doesn’t wake up. And the rest of us gather round, silently, not to do anything much really – just to have a look.

And the condom, placed with loving tender care over the bridge of Rik's nose, leaks some of its spunky contents down Rik’s face, a thin river of testicle tadpoles trickles ever-so-slowly directly





Rik splutters a bit, rubs his face with a hand, and manages to splat a load more of the lumpy white contents onto his lips and cheeks as if he’s squeezing out the final contents of a sachet of mayonnaise. A wave of exited muttering breaks out amoung the gathered watchers as Rik proceeds to coat his nose, lips, cheeks and chin in a fine layer of gonad glaze.

It really was an awsome sight...

Eventually my mate Greg whispers to me: “That’s ace, Spanky! Don’t forget to put the can of shaving cream back in that cunt’s bag - if he finds it in your stuff he'll rip your fucking arms off.”

I whisper back, not able to take my eyes from the strangely alluring homoerotic display before my eyes: “Shaving cream?”

“Yeah, you know – what these cunts were chucking at us earlier today...” and – as Greg clocks the instant panic spread over my face he utters four little but incredibly insightful words: “You sick, sick fucker...” Greg says.

I then spent the next half an hour trying to clean my cum from the school bullies face while trying not to wake him up - now that's fucking character building, I can tell you...
(, Tue 19 May 2009, 10:30, 7 replies)
I'll do YOU a good turn...
There’s a [controversial?] vein of opinion which suggests that bullies are troubled beings, victims themselves one way or another. In many ways I hope we can sometimes spare a thought for the poor tossers. I know when I was bullied many moons hence I look back on the perpetrator with a kind of gleeful pity. This is a bit of a long one, but then I am a terrible gasbag – so tough.

I had enjoyed a long and productive career in the Brownies; grabbing up badges by the chubby fistful, rising through the ranks with a dark, Machiavellian intensity, and doing good deeds until all the geriatrics in the area frankly begged for mercy. I was a Brownie bloody virtuoso. I became a Sixer (those not in the know – it’s like a lieutenant to Brown Owl’s general) in the Pixies, and I ruled my little group of reports like a fucking despot. But then the inevitable happened. At 11 I became too old to remain in the Brownies and the day beckoned when I was destined to become a Guide.

So – with a brand new blue uniform to replace bile yellow and baby-poo-brown one, a sash bare of badges, and an acute consciousness that I was now at the bottom of the pile where until recently I had been lording it at the top – I threw myself into my new life on Wednesday evening instead of Thursday evening at the leaky village hall. Before you knew it, I was up to my old tricks – sucking up to ‘Mole’, the adult leader, like a Dyson, and generally being a little goody-goody arse.

A few weeks after I joined was the annual Guide Camp event, where we were sent off to large it up under canvas in a field in Withyham. I was put in a tent with seven other girls of varying ages who I didn’t really know at all, but I was the youngest and by far the fattest, specciest and most ginger. There was a leader, of sorts, called Gemma. It took about a nanosecond to interpret the atmosphere in that tent to be one of a relentless and really quite creative hatred towards me, personally. And one look at Gemma was all that was needed to see a laser-like determination to make my four-day stay at Guide Camp an utter, utter misery. After a few minutes it was established that I was ‘spastic Wheezy’, and every time I attempted to join in the conversation my words would be drowned out with a chorus of strained mooing – even if I was replying to a question asked of me. In retrospect, this was quite obviously genius, and if the roles had been reversed I would have laughed like a ‘tard as well every time it happened (every few minutes).

Things started to go wrong for Gemma when we were assigned our first task in tent-groups; lashing together wood we could find in order to make a free-standing wash basin. Would you believe it? I had perfected knot-tying to an art the previous week! So off I go, pushing other people aside, snatching wood out of their ham-fisted hands so that I could do it properly myself, ostentatiously undoing their [perfectly fine] knots and replacing them with my own. Most of the other girls (after a decent amount of ‘stop it you little bitch’, ‘get off, you fat spastic’, ‘moo’, etc) just gave up and took advantage of this saddo to do their work while they sat down and blew through grass whistles. Not Gemma. She was foaming at the mouth with rage that I was taking charge, and pinched and pulled my hair when I didn’t respond to her shouting in my face. I was just putting the finishing touches to the stand when she finally lost it, and, just in time for Mole to see her as she was coming around the tent to inspect our team’s handiwork, Gemma picked up the whole rickety structure and tried to hit me in the face with it. Totally worth it – Mole went postal. Gemma not only had to compose a formal apology and relay it in front of the whole camp at dinnertime that evening, but she was written down in Mole’s little book as a ‘troublemaker’. ‘Hah’, my sneaky little mind thought, ‘that’ll put an end to her tricks.’ Oh no.

Gemma just became more devious in her approach. She and her gang would wait until Mole was otherwise occupied before capsizing my kayak or putting mud in my opaque water-bottle. I managed to drive her to distraction by gaining particular commendation for my skill in recovering from capsizing and also my kindness for relieving a ‘hot and distressed’ sheep by washing it with my own bottled water, which was freshly replaced as a mark of appreciation. She cottoned on to the fact that I was paralysingly scared of the dark, and so would tell ghost stories in the middle of the night which meant that I wet my sleeping bag rather than going outside to the portaloo. The tent was a complete mess, and it wasn’t until the following morning that it was discovered that I had weed on Gemma’s copy of ‘Smash Hits’ with all the pictures of Shane Ritchie drawn around with biro hearts. She wouldn’t admit it was hers – the shame if she did! But I saw her face of real heartbreak when she thought the others weren’t looking.

At last it was the final day. Gemma and the gang had grown tired of mooing at me whilst I packed, and had retired outside to do cartwheels. I was jamming my (dry but slightly whiffy) sleeping bag into its carrier when I unearthed a pair of white kickers. ‘Not mine’, I thought, and looked at the name embroidered in the waist band.


I looked at the knickers more closely. There was a long, almost perfect light brown skid mark stretching a considerable distance in the gusset.

I pondered them, then, checking that everyone else in the camp were busy helping take down the kitchen marquee, I sprinted out to the flagpole at the centre of the ring of tents, tied the shitty pants to the cord, and whipped them up to fly proudly about 10 feet off the ground – just out of reach of even the tallest camper, but near enough that the crusty crime was evident for all to see. I scuttled back to my packing, chuckling in a fat, speccy, ginger way.

Gemma cried, and had to be picked up early by her mum rather than go home on the minibuses with the rest of us.

Sorry, Gemma, you poisonous slag!

(, Fri 15 May 2009, 16:15, 9 replies)
Compared to some of the stories on here
... then I haven't gone through as much as many of you, i've been picked on as a kid for being different, had a few scraps but nothing ever serious until one time which in retrospect last 18 months. The only thing is I didn't realise it until these last few months. Sorry for lack of funnehs to follow here...

We'll call her Sarah (not real name). We met nearly 3 years ago and to be honest it was wonderful at first. I'd been single for about 6 months after coming out of my first serious relationship (i was 21/22, she a year younger) and i'd had a bit of fun but meeting her for the first week everything seemed good and i was genuinely happy. This soon changed... it was getting to the point where if i didn't at least call her twice a day and see her every other day then she would kick off, verbally and physically. Bear in mind i was living at home at the time and she lived about 25 miles away, so it was a 50 mile round trip and i was still getting myself out of debt from a bad car purchase.

So we'd go out too, i'd have to buy the drinks, the food and drive, but it was ok, I'm the boyfriend and that's what we do isn't it? Next thing i know is we're living together within 4 months of meeting. We got a place round the corner from her family and friends so she isn't away from them, whereas I am in a town i don't know and have no friends nearby within a 20mile radius either.

I'm having to take time off work to get a 2nd job to earn extra income as she decides to quit her job and go to uni. 2 1/5 days a week. I was also having to drive her to various friends at weekends where i wouldn't see or hear from her for 2 days and if i tried asking then i would get a torrent of abuse. Now I'm a well built lad, nearly 6 foot and i've played rugby most of my life, whereas she was a 5foot2 size 6/8. I've stood up for myself on and off rugby pitch, been in some fights too but with her i was completely paralysed and couldn't do a thing. She would should at me and i couldn't do anything but take it and let her keep chipping away at what little self esteem i had left. Then she would start hitting me, kicking me or if the argument was in the bedroom then she would grab me by my hair and hit my head against the headboard. Then after she'd done that she would grab her things and walk out saying she was leaving me and i'd have to beg her to come back, which she would the following day, with no explanation of where she'd been other than the alcohol on her breath.

So i was feeling physically sore and tired every day, i was getting into trouble with work for my attendance and work inconsistency. I was starting to put on weight too as i had to quit rugby as she didn't like it and as i also didn't have the time. I was spending money on having to take her out, money i didn't have, so i'd then have to take out loans. And she had a part time job and uni loans which she'd spend on drink, shoes, straighteners and if i asked for even as much as £60 per week then i would get the abuse again. She got herself into trouble, financially and bailiffs were threatening to go to her parents, so another loan was taken out, by myself, to pay off her debts. This happened twice which also included me having to get more money somehow. Next thing i knew i had over £6k in debts with loans and credit cards and i was struggling to even pay the interest on these. Birthdays and christmas i'd get vouchers for shops, she would then use them without my knowing or by saying she'd pay me back.

Several occasions i had to be woken up by the police during stupid hours in morning saying she was in hospital and could i go pick her up. I'd get through and be told a story by her of how she'd been spiked by someone and she doesn't remember anything, yet i'd hear her on the phone to her best friend later saying she remembered everything and what she'd done and with whom, but i put it down to the fact she must have been spiked so she had no control?

So this continued to happen for 18 months, my career was going nowhere, i wasn't able to see or visit friends because they either weren't allowed round or i couldn't afford petrol money to see them. I'd be hit, smacked, kicked, shouted at. I was becoming depressed, i couldn't sleep and then when i knew i had some time to myself, i'd break down. One time she saw this and laughed at me telling me i was pathetic.

It doesn't sound like much but to live with someone every day who you thought you loved, and loved you, even though every day you hated coming home from work because you knew how you'd be treated, but it was destroying my soul, my self esteem and my confidence in anything. I was going to the doctor several times a month due to various health issues, which he put down to the way i was living. He even asked about my bruising, which i put down to rugby issues. He didn't buy this so i ended up having to stop going.

Then, 2 days before Christmas day (last year) she left and walked out, expecting me to come after her and i was going to beg her to come back, but one of my friends said no. He'd just gone through the same thing and said i should stand ground. I did this, she came back Christmas eve and i told her to find somewhere else to live and had packed her bag. She tried to hit me then and for the first time in 2 years i stopped it. I grabbed her arm so tight she was almost crying and i threw her out of the house with her bags. I then changed the locks, went inside and i fell to the floor crying.

I rang my parents, told them we'd broken up and then spent the next couple days round at there's and they were probably the happiest days of my life. For the first time i felt like people actually cared about me again.

Then i was back home, living in a house where i had so little money after all my bills and debts had gone out i was left with less than £30 a month. This doesn't even include petrol for my car or even food/shopping to live with, my parents then started to help out by buying my shopping each week. But i was, and still am living in a house in an area where i have no friends. She'd try coming round banging on door screaming and shouting, or call me at 3 in the morning telling me she missed me or asking if i was alone before going off on another tirade. I was struggling to cope as i didn't know what to do with myself and then my friend whom i mentioned earlier, who had been through the same as me, he hanged himself. Everything began to feel black to me again, however with the help of a new boss at work he began to help me get myself sorted.

Life is better now, i've got my career back on track with promotion involved too, i've started sports again and seeing friends too. I'm still struggling with severe debt and living in a house i don't want (and can't afford to leave/sell) but I'm getting back on track again. Met someone recently and it wasn't until talking to her i realised how broken i'd become, and she helped me to build my self esteem back up - unfortunately she had to move away, which although hurt but because of the time i'd spent with her she'd made me stronger in a quick space of time and so i can cope.

I'm starting to pay my debts off bit by bit (down from £6k - 5k now!) and from what i've heard my ex is struggling completely. she hasn't tried to get in touch with me since i dropped all her rubbish off at her parents (well, the bits which I'm not ebaying at least!). Her parents are great people and have been the victim of this same abuse as i have, but now I'm away i can see that she is a bully and will not get anywhere in life, which is a shame as her parents would still want me round for dinner and ask me to explain the lies my ex was telling about me, and they believed me too, but family is always first.

I'm still on the mend but life is starting to look a bit better. I do get lonely at times but thanks to support from some true friends and awful as it may sound my friend who hanged himself, he taught me a lesson by doing it, making me realise that life is not so harsh that it can't go on, that there are folk out there who care and will help. I am still insecure but it's certainly given me an experience in life i've learnt from.

Sorry for going on, although i've spoken to friends i've never said as much as i have done now, and having been a b3tar for some time i've seen how others have been able to find some strength by writing out their pain and anguish and i do feel a bit better for letting it all out here :-)
(, Tue 19 May 2009, 18:59, 9 replies)
i once knew a kid
who was regarded by the whole school as slow.Time and again he'd be surrounded by a group of jeering morons who'd upbraid him in harsh terms for being a 'retard' or somesuch.
Their favourite game was to offer him a fifty-pence piece and a pound coin.They knew he'd always take the fifty pence because it was bigger.It was their favourite trick and they'd do it time and again to jeering laughter.
Once after many months of this I stopped him.
'Don't you realise that they're making fun of you with the whole fifty pence/pound thing,mate?They're doing it for kicks and laughing at you!I'm sure you know that a pound is worth more!'
'Yes,' he said,looking up at me shyly.'But if I took the pound they'd stop doing it.' and walked off shaking his head like I was an idiot which,in all fairness,I guess I was.
(, Fri 15 May 2009, 13:51, 5 replies)
Police Bullies
Have an amusing pearoast from back in December 2007.....

My Dad was a policeman (now retired) and tv programmes like Life On Mars are very near the truth apparently for the average nick in the 1970s and 80s. My Dad is full of stories about what happened then...some of them are exactly like LoM and some are more like Heartbeat....none really have the style and panache of The Sweeney...

Just as in LoM they didn't use tape machines to record interviews which meant that a certain amount of 'leeway' could be employed...

Yes, they could bully their way to a confession.

This did mean that on some occasions the result would actually be humorous (well, for the outside world perhaps, maybe not if it resulted in you being banged up for a long stretch just because the man in uniform didn't like you...but I digress...).

On one particular occasion a man had been brought in for questioning regarding a crime that the police knew he was responsible for but he refused to budge from his story.

The decision was made to attempt to provide a little 'pressure' to ensure the required outcome was arrived at....

One of the coppers on duty was a member of the police diving squad and just happened to have his wetsuit and gear with him.

This was at a coastal police station so someone was sent down to the pier and a large fish was purchased.

The accused had been left in the interview room for a while, alone...then the door opened and in walked a frogman - full kit including flippers and facemask, and carrying a large fish....The questions were posed again and this time with each 'incorrect' answer the accused received a mighty wet fish slap around his chops.

Eventually the chap 'coughed' to the crime and it all went to court in due course.

Once on the stand the defendant withdrew his earlier confession as it had been made under duress, and explained the situation surrounding it....

The judge had him sent off for psychiatric assessment.
(, Mon 18 May 2009, 18:44, 7 replies)
this QOTW
is too upsetting at times :(

Have some kittens :D

*-* Pictures, Images and Photos
(, Sat 16 May 2009, 14:27, 9 replies)
Sick and tired
A four year old Rakky is sat on the school bus, wearing her boater and gymslip, heading off to another day at the hell hole school she’d been sent to. And like every day, as soon as the bus doors closed and my mother’s tearful face slid out of view, the girl from my class, the stupid, popular, rich one would start on me. “Give me your jotter, what’s the matter, cry baby, going to tell teacher?” On and on it went, every single day until one day I could take no more.

So, pulling myself up to the full height that only a four year old can muster, I prepared to unleash a salvo of such terrifying force that even the gods themselves would stop to listen…

And I vomited on her.

Didn’t mean to, it just kind of fell out.

Left me alone after that though. Stupid bitch.
(, Thu 14 May 2009, 9:06, 4 replies)
I wasn't going to post, I can' t add anything that hasn't been said already..
So have a pearoast from a while back, we need more funny...

Bless her...
My elder Sparklet is known for her outspokenness, always has either suffered, or made others suffer for it, but she's a great girl and I'm very proud of her..

She was bullied to hell at her secondary school, there was one yound lad who had decided it was his "Turn" to make her life a misery, which he did, for the rest of the term. Then he was off school with a weird form of bone cancer, resulting in an amputation of one of his arms up to the elbow. During his illness, the school went into overdrive collecting money for him, extolling his virtues as Captain of the school rugby team, top student and all round nice guy, which pissed her off no end, given how he'd treated her. So much so that when the collection came round at parents evening, she asked the collector what the plans were for the funds raised, they replied that they were compiling a list of suggestions, and stood with pens poised.

"How's about half a juggling lesson?" asked my dear daughter, before turning on her heel, marching off and leaving me to deal with it..
(, Wed 20 May 2009, 10:20, 6 replies)
I, along with most of the population of b3ta, was bullied at school, by both pupils and teachers. I don't particularly want to think too much about it, so here's a story my mother told me about one of her experiences with bullying:

My maternal grandfather died when my mother was 10 years old. She's always talked of him in the best possible terms: a loving father, someone who would never discourage my mother and aunt from exploring and experimenting, who taught them how a car engine worked, how to break into a car if you've locked your keys inside (sadly it won't work these days), how to read, draw, play rugby, and generally lead a happy childhood. Most importantly, he taught them very early on how to defend themselves: if they're being bullied, hit back and harder. If a man attacks them, go for the balls, use your hands, feet and teeth to hurt your attacker, and run away the first chance you get.

My mother was devastated when he died. The other children at her school didn't know how to talk to someone who'd been bereaved, so opted not to talk to her at all. She was, and is, very shy, but has the most volatile temper I've ever seen.

So when, one day not long after her father died, she was enjoying a day tobogganing about on her sled, an older boy (let's called him John Smith) took it from her, she saw red. She was 11, he was 13, and much bigger than her. She asked Smith to give it back. He said no. She balled her hand into a fist and made a movement with her foot as if she were going to kick him. Smith instinctively put his hands down to deflect her kick, whereupon she hit him as hard as she physically could in the nose, breaking it. His blood fountained out, splattering into the snow in warm spurts. She grabbed her sled as he clutched at his shattered nose, and went home.

Later that afternoon, there was a knock at the door. It was Mr Smith, who had known my grandfather slightly. He asked to speak to my grandma, and told her that my mother had attacked his son John without provocation. My grandma asked my mother to explain herself, and therefore my mother expained exactly what had happened, and that she was just defending herself as her father had taught her. Mr Smith looked at her, a small, defiant girl, and nodded. He left. He went home, explained to his son that (a) his lie had been found out, (b) he should never try to take things that weren't his, (c) how dare he bully a girl who'd just lost her father, and (d) wasn't he ashamed that he'd been beaten up by a girl younger and smaller than him? He gave him four strokes with the cane, and then marched him over to my mother's house, and made him apologise personally in front of my grandma and aunt, completing his humiliation.
(, Mon 18 May 2009, 13:03, 7 replies)
There was a bully in the street where I grew up named Lawrence. Nasty piece of work. Seventeen year old smoker with a tattoo of a nudie lady on his arm; ok, it wasn't such a great ink job - she looked a bit down syndrome and appeared to have three tits, but he had a tattoo all the same. This made Lawrence hard. Also, the fact that he'd quite happily mash the shit out of any kid who strayed onto his driveway helped this image along nicely.

Lawrence also had a car - a mustard yellow Ford Capri. It was his pride and joy. When he wasn't beating the shit out of the local kids for 'looking at him funny', or trying his damndest to sexually harrass any teenage girl in a two mile radius, he'd be out front of his house waxing his motor, the windows down, blaring out hardman music like The Clash, or on occasion, Frankie Goes to Hollywood.

Lawrence even gave the car a name - he called it The Thunderdome (in homage to favorite film; or possibly because he loved Tina Turner and wanted to marry her; fuck knows). But The Thunderdome became famous in our street. It had the same affect as looking directly at The Arc of the Covenant in that Indiana Jones film - if you dared look at The Thunderdome for any length of time, you could expect a swift thump from Lawrence and a barrage of death threats. Apparently looking at this motor wore out the paint, according to Lawrence.

Then, one fateful August day twatting about in the street with my mate Greg on our choppers, I inadvertently swerved, clipped the pavement, and went into the side of the poorly parked Thunderdome. Greg, being a true mate, legged it, leaving me sprawled on the street, badly brusied, grazed and bleeding, with the:

Whooooop!!! - Whooooop!!! - Whooooop!!!

of the Thunderdome's car alarm rattling in my ears. I got on my bike and fucked off sharpish. And within minutes Lawrence was stalking up and down the street asking the kids which fucker had just scratched his motor. He never really bothered with me as such before and not really that much after. I had no interest in cars, he had no interest in me - the arrangement worked just fine.

But having to spend a nice sunny afternoon trapped in the house playing Mouse Trap with Greg (took ages to set that fucker up just for ten seconds of excitement; a bit like my sex life now, come to think of it), anyway, I decided enough was enough. It was time to bring this cunt down a peg or two. For the sake of all the kids in the street. And anyway - I was bored.

I went and found my mums purse and 'borrowed' a quid. Then I sneaked out the back door, Greg trailing behind, and we went to the fishing tackle shop a few streets down.

"What are we doing here?" Greg asked.

And I explained how my Uncle George had told me about something that happened to him once when he went on holiday and forgot he had a jar of maggots he'd bought as bait in his shed. I remember sitting, mouth agape, as my Uncle George relayed the tale. I imagine he was trying to warn me off, but all I could think was: Shit, I've gotta try that one day.

"Half a pound of maggots, please," I asked. Mr Maggot-Seller weighed out the booty and passed it over.

We went home, put the fuckers in a big glass jar with some old bacon, screwed on the lid, knocked in a few airholes, and hid the fucker in the shed.

Fastforward a week or so...

Lawrence is still stalking round, enjoying the fact its school holidays and he has a shitload of local kids to terrorise. He's busy shouting at someone or other with some shit 80's hair rock ballad blaring on his motors radio. Greg and I, holding the now buzzing, angrily vibrating jar of angry-as-fuck flies, old bits of rotting bacon, and loads of broken open pupae cases, sneak over to The Thunderdome, SWAT-team style, loosen the lid on the jar, and slide it down onto the passanger seat through the open window.

Then we leg it and find a nice place to watch proceedings.

Lawrence finishes hitting the kid. Stalks back towards the Capri, he sees something on the passanger seat-

- opens the door -

and disappears in a violent cloud of pissed off blue bottles, falling backwards and screaming like the evil little nonce he was.

"Arggggghhhh!!!! Gettum off!!!! Gettum off!!!!" he squealed. But no one helped the fucker.

And in moments the flies had dispersed. Lawrence gathered himself, went into his house, picking dead flies out of his gelled hair and from between his teeth as he went.

Although Lawrence continued his chosen calling as a bullying, now at least he had to put up with everyone - even some of the adults - making a strange, droning, barely audible 'buzzing' noise as he stalked past.

Fly bombs - cool as fuck.
(, Thu 14 May 2009, 14:17, 2 replies)
i find the suggestion that victims "choose" to be victims as was suggested below (Pig_of_Doom,) utterly fucking reprehensible...

my father bullied me all my young life - a sad small alcoholic loser, a tyrant, a figure of sheer terror to me as a small child.

i now have a great career and a wife and child that love me - but...

i was told aged 5 i was "all the man i was ever going to be" whilst having my hand crushed to a pulp as a supposedly 'manly' way to say goodnight. I WANTED A FUCKING HUG FOR FUCKSAKE.

i saw my home smashed up and my mother cowering in a corner at 3 am with mascara streaked eyes that were dry and sore from hours of crying, every other fucking weekend

every christmas ruined.

blood on the walls.

smashed televisions and glass from broken coffee tables littered everywhere on a saturday morning


burning newspaper being held up to my mothers face whilst pinned to a wall.

my mother being threatened with an air rifle in her face.

lying awake till 3 am hearing my 'father' call my mother all the whores and cunts he could muster (i found out that way quite early in life my mother lost her virginity on a train aged 18 -sadly she was spectacularly fertile so i was the accident that smashed them together) apparently that made her "a fucking hingoot"

other joys? regularly being dragged out of bed at 4 am on a school night at primary school age with my even younger sister "because we were leaving" sadly this never happened


fuck off, you punched a child in a playground, you have no fucking clue

this whole QOTW is about "i hit a big boy when i was 8" VIZ: i won!

thats fine, dont tell me i chose to be a fucking victim
(, Thu 14 May 2009, 21:37, 22 replies)
Second Week of Big School 1983
At lunchtime I was hanging around by the tree in the playing field suddenly a bigger kid comes up to me and said 'Oi! are you new here'? I replied in a quiet 'Y-y-yes'.

He said 'Watch this' and picked up a small rock from the floor and threw it as hard as he could.

About 200ft away a small kid in my year was nonchalantly strolling at the end of field probably thinking about the latest adventures of Dangermouse, unaware that I and a few others were watching the trajectory of the missile as it made a graceful arc across the sky.

It looked like it was going to bounce right off the top of his head, and with a loud CRACK!, it did.

I turned to the bully with a look of amazement as he said 'That's physics that is mate, You'll learn that in a few years' and with that the stone thrower strolled off.
(, Wed 13 May 2009, 18:23, 5 replies)
I was a bully
My first pearoast. A bit soon if I am to be honest.

Many moons ago when Porky was a callow 14, I was small, thin, wore glasses, had crap hair: basically a bit of an unattractive package. However I was well in with the cool kids. Yeah right. I was tolerated in their company because I was funny and always up for a laugh (have you ever noticed the coolest kids aren’t really very inventive? The ones I knew weren’t). But I digress. One of the kids at school, Huw, was rather strange. He was Welsh (although the accent wasn’t too bad as we lived in the North East), short, very hairy and had a haircut that resembled a suede brush. To top it off he wasn’t too bright in a special sort of way and had a pronounced speech impediment that gave the impression he was speaking in tongues. In other words uglier and less acceptable than me. Yay!

On the day in question we had suffered the stultifying boredom of double maths leading up to morning break. I had survived the class by burning the back of my hand with a magnifying glass to keep myself awake. There was only one solution, FIND HUW! Now although Huw was not one of the cool kids he had a rather severe tobacco addiction and was usually to be found in the boys bogs having a quick cancerstick between lessons. And sure enough there he was, enjoying in solitary peace and quiet what was probably one of the few things that kept the poor cunt going.

Only he wasn’t alone any more, he was surrounded by a bunch of predators intent on making a few moments of his day an absolute misery. There was a bit of ribbing which was designed to make him lose his temper (mocking his accent, hairiness and speech impediment usually did it) and hence in need of punishment.

Sorry, I had to take a break there. I’m not remembering this, I’m reliving it. It isn’t pleasant as you will see.

His first punishment was an arm twisting. Up until this point I had never joined in with the more physical bullying but today was my turn and at the behest of the genial and laughter filled cool kids I twisted his arm. Hard. I could hear the ligaments and tendons cracking and popping. I felt sick. Huw was squealing like a raped suckling pig and one of the more inventive chaps suggested we put his head down the toilet and pull the chain to quiet him. So I did. I crammed Huw’s head into the shit speckled porcelain and someone pulled the chain. Huw stopped squealing and started making gagging, choking noises. Quite understandably. At this point my erstwhile pals took to their heels as the bell sounded for end of break. I would like to say I was torn by remorse and helped Huw get cleaned up for his next lesson but I didn’t. I did however look at his face and I wish I never had. The haunted look of pain on his face was unbearable. A dumb-animal look that communicated his failure to understand why anyone would want to do this to him hit me hard. His shoulders slumped and he picked his bag up with his good arm. Silently he shouldered his way past me and went home.

But it didn’t end there. His mother brought him back to school, cleaned up, after lunch. I was called to the head’s office. He had named only me. Fine. I took the physical punishment (a sound caning) and was then given the devastating real punishment. I was known to all the teachers as a bright but lazy scholar, my punishment? To help Huw after school with his homework. Every night for six months. I still don’t think it was enough.

I came to know Huw rather well and he was one of the funniest most irreverent little gits I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. He forgave me quickly and with ease, he was like that. I also forgave myself eventually but I never forgot and I never bullied again.
(, Wed 13 May 2009, 13:12, 13 replies)
from cool to "gay" in 5 seconds
i'm 18 years old and recently was on my way home from work and was walking up the back street
near this club were they have metal bands on for 12-18 year olds. i used to go there but stopped going because well i could legally drink
so the few of us who'd been going since we were 12 had kinda moved on to other places.

i noticed there weren't many kids outside, only about 10 of them, which if it was bad weather was expected as they'd be let in early but it was a nice night.
so as i was walking past one of the lads shouted me over, he was my friends little brother and only about 13 years old.i went over and
was having a chat with him when i noticed about 7 or 8 chav looking boys who were my age and older walked up the road.
usually you'd get a few idiot trying to pick on anyone round there for being a "GOFF" but they never did anything just shout.

then one of them walked over and punched my friends brother in the side of the head and started laughing and showing off to his mates.
he was stood on the edge of the curb side on to me.it really really pissed me off that he was 18 years old picking on a kid just
because he knew the kid wouldn't fight back. i grabbed the back of his hood, punched him in the face and pushed him off the curb.

he obviously wasn't expecting this (neither was i to be honest just acted on impulse) and fell flat on his arse in the middle of the road.
his friends were hysterical laughing shouting "YOU BIG GAY YOU JUST GOT FLOORED BY A GIRL... LOOK AT HER SHE'S TINY!"

i gave him one last kick in the balls, much to the amusment of his friends, and then walked my friends brother home.
(, Thu 14 May 2009, 12:20, 3 replies)
Poor Ben
I should start by saying that I heard this story from the person involved. It may well be total shite and a story that every school has. If that's the case, though, I've no idea why he didn't admit so and save himself years of bullying.

Anyway, there was a kid at my school called Ben. He was super clever and also a really nice guy. The kind of guy who was honest to a fault. He was into radiohead before anyone else and got stick for years before everyone else realised he was right. Music tastes, however, were the least of his worries. He had very strick parents. The kind that ensure academic success through a distint imbalance of the carrot/stick ratio. I dare say he was terrified of them. We sure were. Two super-strict Egyptian surgeons who prided themselves on discipline. And this made sure the story that sentenced him to 2 years of abuse all the more special.

As the story goes one day 16 year old Ben was sitting at his desk in his bedroom doing a little bit of internet surfing. As is the way with a combination of a teenage boy, privacy, and an open internet connection, he soon found himself looking at porn.

Now, Ben had recently heard that having a wank while sitting at your desk is like having a shit with your clothes on - it gets the job done, but there are more enjoyable ways. So he decided to walk on the wild side and have a standing wank. Hence, a couple of minutes of flesh-staring later, reaching the vinegar strokes and legs spasming, he was in the wanking version of what sportsmen would call 'the zone'.

Then in walks his mum.

Now, under usual circumstances - as we all know - the reflex kicks. Something is thrown over your crotch, monitor turned off and tissues hidden within about 0.1s. This is, apparently, not so easy with your trousers round your ankles, monitor out of reach and legs going through spasms. So, horror-struck at hearing the door open what does Ben do? He freezes. He turns to face the door and freezes. But it was too late. The vinegar strokes had arrived. So, stopping dead and clutching at his penis, his mum enters into the room to be welcomed by the sight of - you guessed it - Ben jizzing right at her.

Apparently he hit her dress near the ankle. She didn't stop. She simply walked in, got spunked on, and walked straight out again like an incestuous dial-a-bukkake. All within the space of about a second.

Needless to say, they never spoke about it. And, riddled with such a mental cluster-fuck, Ben confided in his best friend. Who told his best friend. Who told.....etc His life was misery from then on. Even the teachers knew - one once even joking about "seeing Monica Lewinski, er, I mean you mum" at parents evening. I mean, what's Ben going to do? Tell his dad?

The poor lad is getting married soon. Almost none of his friends from school are invited. Presumably to avoid his fiance learning that her new husband once spunked on his mum.
(, Tue 19 May 2009, 5:45, 5 replies)
Sage Scottish advice
Growing up I was the killer combination of being short, bespeckled and crap at sports. It’s as though the bullying fairy had shat in my crib at birth.

At first things weren’t too bad because almost everyone’s short and weedy at first (with the exception of William Dale, who was nearly six foot by the time he was 13 and built like a brick shithouse – lovely chap mind you). But when puberty hit life started to get very miserable indeed.

To compound things I was stuck in a boarding school so it went on all day and all night. I assembled a motley collection of bruises, wrist burns (and one breakage) endless shattered specs, far too many ‘Deep Heat on the bollocks’ sessions and a broken tooth by the time I was 14. I’m only glad I didn’t live in a country with easy access to guns otherwise I’d have been stalking the school halls with an AK47 in one hand and the scrotums of two or three of the worse perpetrators in the other*.

Now parents will tell you to just ignore the bullies and they’ll go away. After several years working towards my PhD in the school of getting the shit kicked out of you I can attest this is bullshit. “Just keep out of their way,” is also not good advice when you’re sharing a dormitory room with them for 30 weeks of the year.

The school chaplin suggested prayer, which I tried as well. Either god doesn’t listen to prayers or he takes active pleasure in watching gangs of kids beating up their peers – and after many years of thought and a thorough reading of the bible I suspect the latter.

Thankfully it was my great uncle Jim who provided the answer. I’d gone up to Scotland to stay with him for the first time in years and he’d noticed that the ‘bonny wee lad’ he’d last seen five years ago had turned into a quivering lack of self confidence in a perpetual state of fear. After some patient questioning and two large whiskey toddies I unburdened myself to him and he thought for a while, puffing on an unfiltered Senior Service, before giving me the answer.

“It’s going to hurt for a wee bit but ye’ll have to hammer the cunts.”

He explained that he’d had similar problems in the army in the Second World War. He had joined up in 1940 and, being bookish sort and a homosexual to boot, had suffered similar torments. In the end he told me it drove him almost insane but he got the advice he had given me from a corporal and it had worked. He fought back, fought dirty and never backed down unless unconscious, which had happened more than once.

He then spent the next week inculcating me in the art of fighting dirty. I learnt the value of bollock grabbing, instep crunching, long fingernails and elbow strikes to the face. It was kind of like Karate Kid without the boring 'wax on, wax off' rubbish and substituting a wizened Asian man with a gay, perpetually drunk Scotsman (which to my mind would have made a better film.)

As the next term started I used his advice. Once the bullying started I hit out and didn’t stop hitting, biting and scratching until they ran off or I couldn’t get up again. Yes, there were many times when I got the shit kicked out of me, because all the fighting in the world won’t help you when it’s five to one, but I didn’t mind it so much. There was none of the sick misery I’d felt as a victim before, more just a stoic acceptance that it was needed and a sneaking pride in my ability to pick myself up and go out and do it again.

It’s remarkable how quickly the bullies faded away. Most of the scum who bully are cowards deep down, that’s why most of them do it – to prove to themselves that they aren’t, and if there are other kids out there who won’t hurt them they’ll move on to new and easier game. By the end of the term it had stopped all together and I was well on the way to getting some confidence back.

I’ve never had to fight since, apart from one incident on my 29th birthday but that was self-defence, and have grown up to hate bullies and all they stand for, be it in schools, the workplace or wearing a policeman’s uniform. If my goddaughter ever has problems I’ll pass on Jim’s advice with pleasure, just as I’ve passed it on here, and I urge you all to do the same.

Apols for the length but it’s a hot button issue for me.

*The day after Columbine I said as much in the pub and was surprised at how many people agreed. Thank goodness for gun control.
(, Thu 14 May 2009, 0:03, 8 replies)
My dad worked for the police force...
...when we lived in Cambridgeshire. He clocked around 13 years of dedicated service and has about 1,000,000 stories to tell of his time, and boy does he tell ‘em - I don’t mind though, its always kept me on the straight and narrow, well, actually he just used to scare the shit out of me so I was too scared to break the law… just in case he found out… and then found me!! *shudders*

Anyhoo, one story that has always stuck in my mind relates to this QOTW so I’ll fire it down here for all to read, if you feel like it…

One miserable drizzly evening in 2000 my dad and his partner in crime (enforcement) got a call about a domestic dispute in Wisbech, a man had beaten up his wife. They hopped in the car and drove around to the address to meet up with the two police officers that were already at the house.

The second they knocked on the door a women swung it open and got right in my dads face shouting. She had a bruised cheek and a collected work of verbal obscenities and she wasn’t afraid to use them. My dad tried to calm down the woman and asked her to explain what had happened. She started jumping around screaming that her husband had beaten her and that they needed to throw him in prison as he was a danger to society. It was then my dad realised they were one person short. Where was the husband?

My dad left the hysterical woman with his partner and went on a search for the husband. One of the officers that had arrived first at the scene told my dad it was straight-forward what had happened, the guy had beaten his wife and was now handcuffed and in the living room, clearly regretting his crimes.

My dad found the guy sitting on the floor and crouched down next to him when the woman burst into the room shouting, kicking and spitting at her husband. ‘He’s been beating me for years, and I couldn’t take it anymore so I finally hit him back’ she cried.

Now usually if this sort of thing happened you would just assume that the woman was telling the truth. She was visibly hurt, clearly upset and had probably just snapped and lashed out at her husband after years of abuse – the only problem was the husband. He was calm and clearly petrified, something didn’t quite sit right with my dad so he separated the couple and helped lift the guy off the floor to sit him at the table. He winced as he stood up and said that he was sorry he has hit her and would go to the station and wouldn’t put up a fight.

This guy was just not acting like your usual wife-beater and my dad was suspicious of what was going on. Then he noticed the blood that was seeping through the guys shirt. He asked him if his wife had hurt him and he immediately started stuttering that it was her blood and he must have made her bleed when he hit her. Seeing as his wife had a bruised cheek and didn’t look like she was bleeding my dad asked the guy to stand up and pull up his t-shirt.

Turns out the guy was the one being abused. His wife had been beating him for about 6 years and he was too embarrassed and afraid to go to the police. She used to stab him in the stomach with her knitting needles and his chest was covered in scars and scabs. Apparently he had been the one to finally snap and when he said he was going to call the police she hit herself in the face, made the call and said she had been beaten – I mean really, what a bitch.

Soooo yes, thankfully my dad picked up on what was going on and arrested the right person, and she confessed to everything once at the station. I do wonder how often this sort of thing goes on and goes undetected because the guys are too ashamed to come forward?

Apologies for the length and seriousness, I have posted a funny one somewhere too!! :)
(, Tue 19 May 2009, 12:50, 2 replies)
*deep breath*
Ok, I guess this is supposed to be cathartic, but I'm not so sure going over this will lead to a sense of relief. Still, time to man up and soldier on.

Way back in my childhood years I used to hang out with one kid (I won't name him, I still see him now and then) all the time, we were practically brothers. I say brothers, he could occasionally show a mean competitive streak on him, but he always looked out for me. We did the usual boy stuff, running around making noise, or building dens in the woods near the house, but during the cold hard winters of my youth I would always end up in bed with one bug or another.

It was during these bouts of illness that the differences between me and my best friend really came out. My Dad was kind and caring, always making sure I was kept warm, but my friend's Dad was a complete cunt. We weren't dumb kids, we knew his Dad was a drunk, and when he wasn't shouting at or threatening his wife, he'd be yelling or hitting his son. To be honest, it was frightening at the time, he could be so unreasonable and violent. There is nothing worse than a drunk coward who has to bully women and children to make themselves feel strong.

I've blocked out most of the details of the abuse that my friend and his mum suffered at the hands of this cunt, but the events of one night in particular keep coming back to me. It was a cold, December night, and I was ill once again (which had ruined me and my friend's chances of a bloody good snowball fight), when we heard shouting from downstairs. His Dad was drunk again, and yelling at my friend's Mum, but he was also yelling at my Dad! Sure, they'd traded insults before, but never before had he flat out threatened my Dad. Just as we left my bedroom, the shouts and screams were cut short by a loud noise.

I raced to the hallway, my heart pounding in my chest, where I saw a sight that shook me to my core. I feel nauseous writing about it now, but I distinctly remember having to struggle with every ounce of strength in my 9 year old body to stop from throwing myself on the floor and wailing to the heavens. My Dad was lying on the floor, barely moving, and that drunk, bullying prick of a 'man' was standing over him, laughing.

I saw red. I could feel every muscle in my body tensing as a primal rage came over me. I screamed aloud and threw myself at him, fists and feet flailing, images of my hurt father burned into my retinas. The details of what followed are fuzzy at best, but I do remember my friend picking me up off of his Dad, and looking down to see blood dripping from my hands and down the bone claws that now protruded from between my knuckles.

Turns out I'd just killed my real Dad, but thankfully my (now) brother helped me escape. Things were quite wild after that, but I've found that you just can't run away from your past. Still, things are looking up for me now, I've landed a sweet position in this school, and I've found a hot woman. Just need to separate her from her speccy-four-eyes dick of a boyfriend.
(, Fri 15 May 2009, 11:24, 8 replies)
Not very funny.
and probably long. So if you're not in the mood for long and not funny - don't bother reading. Don't bitch - don't complain - just properly don't read it.


When I was a wee Vampyrekitten, only 7 or 8 years old, was when it first started. I was one of the "bright" kids who got to read the "big kids" books and thus was horribly unpopular because of it. I could read before I started school and some of the other kids didn't like that.
I was excluded from games and parties (which, while completely insignificant now - meant a huge deal back then. I'd hear everybody talking about Mollie's birthday and all the fun games they got to play and how Sam won a teddy bear etc, all the while being looked sideways and laughed at), pushed around and generally ignored.
I remember one particularly notable incident where we had show and tell and when I got up for my turn everybody laughed at my very loved and scruffed Humphrey (who has graced this QTOW before) and called me a baby. Then another boy (I think his name was seth?) kicked me in the back when I sat down, just because he could and he didn't like Humphrey.

I did what all "babies" do - I cried. I couldn't understand why they didn't like me so much. I was incredibly shy as a kid, had glasses, so naturally got called four eyes and such but I just couldn't grasp why they hated me so much. I never spoke much unless people spoke to me first, never hit anyone, never called anyone names, never did anything to anybody.

I moved a few years later, down from multicultural Melbourne where last names like mine weren't fussed over, to monocultural Warrnambool. It was cold. It was wet.
I was nine and still wearing glasses. I had a woggy name. I was pale and Dutch and I liked pickles and cheese in bread for lunch (still do!).
My shit of a brother decided to introduce a few of the choicier "nicknames" I'd had up in Melbourne into the school population to make himself look cool.
So it all began again, getting nastier and more vicious as I moved up through school. I began swimming - and I was pretty good at it. I began playing soccer - and I kicked the boys butts. I began playing netball and I was okay at it. But in every sport I tried to play - they already had their friendship groups - and they made it abundantly clear how much they *didn't* need me and how much I wasn't *wanted* around.
In my final year of primary school, I was still the oddball. I still had glasses, read stacks of books, ate woggy food. I was relentlessly bullied every single day by three girls who were determined to make me miserable. When I started growing breasts, they called me a whore. When I got pimples they called me pizza face. Nerd. Geek. Dictionary. Fugly. Freak. It. Every single day. I was asked if I'd ever picked anyone up, if I'd ever let a guy fuck me for money.

One day I cracked. I'd been in tears the whole day because people kept stealing my book, snapping my bra strap, calling me names, passing notes about me around the whole class and then "accidentally" showing them to me. When the end of the day came I slammed my chair on top of the table, except I gave it a little too much force and it went flying off the other side and hit one of my main antagonists in the back of the leg. And I didn't even say sorry. I just said "fuck you" and walked out, bawling.

Highschool was pretty much the same.
Went there, incredibly shy, in the accelerated program but even there I wasn't accepted. People still bullied me - my "best friend" (who has also been mentioned here before), bullied me to the point where I was pretending to be sick so I didn't have to come to school. We had a fight which culminated in her getting her 16 year old friends to threaten to kill me, bash me, break my nose etc etc.
I didn't cope very well. At the time I was also really struggling with my sexuality and the double stress just made me spiral down into depression. I did some very stupid things to myself.
I stopped playing sport because people on my own teams were looking for excuses to bash me up (from memory I suffered several blood noses, many dead arms/legs, quite a few net/basket/volley/soccer balls/hockey pucks to the face). I eventually refused to participate in sport classes altogether. I think I participated in maybe three classes in the last 4 years of high school.

Last year I was friends with a girl called Sheridan. I have no problems in naming her because, quite frankly, she is a bitch. We had maths together and became close friends. She was the first person I came out to. She threw it in my face.
One day we were friends - the next we were nothing. She hated me. She spread rumours about me, wouldn't let me talk to mutual friends, constantly belittled me if I tried to talk to her about it, completely did a 180 degree turn. I was confused and hurt and horribly gutted. She was pretty much the only friend I had - and on a single whim - a single, stupid, petty whim, she decided she hated me - literally over night.

Over the years I was systematically and deliberately bullied and bullied and bullied. I was their chosen victim. You know how there's always that one kid - that one person who is too shy to stand up for themselves, too scared to say anything, thus leading that one kid to be the vent for *everybody's* spleen?

I was that kid.
I was that kid and it still affects me. I am too shy to talk to people I don't know because I don't want them to judge me. I am too shy to say "Hey how's it going?" to somebody I want to get to know because I'm afraid they don't want to talk to me. I can't string a sentence together properly in front of people I don't know - because I get that nervous.

I don't wear glasses any more - I don't eat woggy foods - but I still get bullied. Every Day.
And I cope with it now. Don't say anything, don't react, just try to put it all behind me. I ignore the stares, the whispers, the outright bitchy comments.

But it still doesn't make it hurt any less.
(, Wed 13 May 2009, 14:00, 31 replies)
Bullied by the council
I feel like I am being bullied by Surrey County Council. This is for why.

We have long been required to put recyclable materials into a recycling box. If we put recyclable materials into the normal bin, we get a fine. Fine.

Yesterday 4 new bins were delivered to my door. So I now own the following bins:

1 old wheelie bin;

1 general recycling bin;

1 indoor recycling bin;

1 new bin for cardboard;

1 new general bin;

1 new indoor bin to deposit food waste;

1 new outdoor bin in which to transfer food waste.

In addition to which, I am encouraged by my next door neighbour to share her hedge clippings (“green waste”) bin, so that makes 8 bins.

Any small area of greenery in front of the houses in my road is now completely covered in gargantuan plastic bins. Next door have encouraged their children to graffiti over every bin, to nurture their creative sides, so these environmental pursuits have left the road looking like moss side in the 90s (probably).

In the food waste bin, I am not allowed to deposit food wrapped in a plastic bag, so presumably when it has been collected, I have to scrape the old beans and bacon rinds and whatever from the inside of the bin, wash it, and then put it back outside. Additionally, I have to live with a week’s worth of leftovers sitting in my indoor bin. I had already been given a composting bin by the council (count them – that’s 9!) for my odourless vegetable peelings.

The final piece of good news is that all of the various bins are to be collected at different days of the week, so I have no need for an alarm clock any more.

If at any point I should accidentally put the wrong rubbish in the wrong bin, I run the risk of being prosecuted for murdering the environment.

It all seems a bit unnecessary as my household produces less than a small carrier bag of rubbish per week.

So for length of pomposity and radio 4-ness.
(, Tue 19 May 2009, 11:27, 7 replies)
I rather lost faith in the whole school thing...
I had to literally drag my very distressed children to school for several years, to leave them sobbing their hearts out with a teacher hanging on to them so they didn't run back to me as I left. I'd be telephoned several times a week by the school because they were "distressed" after breaktimes and lunchtimes. I attended meeting after meeting with the head and deputy head about the bullying. The advice given by the staff was the usual "ignore it", "go home for lunch", "walk away", "tell a teacher" type crap. They tried all of this - to no avail. They tried standing up to the bullies - only to get into trouble with the themselves. I was told by my daughter's head of year that nothing would be done about one of the girls bullying my daughter because "her parents would get upset" and would apparently cause trouble for the school - the HoY sympathised, she said, but my daughter would have to try and stay out of the other girl's way. Etc etc, ad nauseum.

After many, many incidents - both physical and verbal, the final straw for me came following yet another a rather nasty assault on my daughter by two girls where, this time, she was thrown on the floor and kicked in the head several times - surrounded by the usual jeering mob. My daughter finally managed to get to the receptionist and asked her to call me. The receptionist said she'd call the school nurse instead, who duly came and took my daughter to the medical room. After being told what had happened the nurse gave her a glass of water and then sent her off to her class. The teacher noticed she was white as a sheet and shaking so sent her back to the nurse, the nurse immediately sent her back to class. After much to'ing and fro'ing to the nurses room over the course of the day (the incident happened in the morning) the deputy head was finally called in. He questioned my daughter and the two girls concerned, who eventually admitted the whole thing and told them to shake hands and apologise.

My daughter came home from school that night still white as a sheet, still shaking, blurred vision, vomiting etc - I finally managed to piece together most of the story from her highly incoherent explanations while we were in casualty. She was concussed but fortunately no permanent or longlasting damage.

Obviously I had several questions for the school staff - why hadnt they called me when it happened, why hadnt they taken her to hospital immediately (which I would think would be commonsense after someone was kicked repeatedly in the head), why did the nurse continually send her back to class when she was quite clearly not fit to be in school after the assault, etc

No satisfactory answers were forthcoming, no apology for the nurse's total incompetence - instead I was apparently supposed to be satisfied with the punishment which the school had decided upon for the two girls concerned - they were "isolated" (not allowed to go outside at breaktime or lunchtime) for one whole day! Woo!

After the meeting concluded I marched straight up to the receptionist, requested a pen and paper, and wrote a letter to the school unregistering them - took them home. They've been home educated ever since.

After being out of the school environment for several years, my children have now returned to the well-balanced and happy people they were before the bullying started. They are respectful, kind and enthusiastic about learning, and are now much more social and friendly with other children (albeit older children rather than their peers) than they ever were whilst at school - something which, had I left them in that abusive and neglectful environment, I'm sure would have been knocked out of them.

Yes, education is necessary - school isn't.
(, Sat 16 May 2009, 4:17, 9 replies)
I used to work on a cattle farm,
and some of the farmhands were basically stupid thugs who were always looking for a fight. Thankfully I started work on a sheep station, and the place couldn't have been more relaxed. Most bullies are cowherds at heart.
(, Thu 14 May 2009, 1:03, 3 replies)
I was getting bullied by guys at school, one was big and bald and one was small but had big hair.
They were taking the piss out of my house and I was “STFU NOOBZ!!!” and they were like “LOL MAYK US!”

So then I went like OMG and my hair turned yellow and all buzzweeoo buzzweeoo buzzweeoo and I was like “SUPER SAIYAN MOTHERFRUITERS!” and dey were like “OMIDAZE 9000?!?!?”

I gave them nipple cripples and den everyone else nipple cripples and then I hit myself in the chest with a broom to make myself feel ‘Mek’ and ‘Unbelievable.’

After I made all mums with buggies walking past headbutt their own chins I sat on a wall and ate TWO curly whirlies and did a sick in a bush from the excitement.

I then spun around a pole in the rain shelter and got rust on my jacket and a trouser tickle that made my willy hard.
(, Wed 13 May 2009, 14:56, 5 replies)

This question is now closed.

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