Smells
I went to boarding school, as you can imagine that place was rife with bullying and bumming. Damn those English teachers.

Despite being a speccy short arse I managed to avoid what should have been my fair share of bullying. All thanks to the exchange student from America. My head remained unflushed thanks to the trailer trash yank, who was only admitted to our privileged ranks thanks to his mum's lucky win on the lotto.

To my eternal shame I joined in the bullying, baying with the rest of the pack, thankful that it wasn't me. That poor kid; bullying is supposed to be character building, wonder what character Darius turned out to be. Hope he didn't take it too badly.
( Weejock, Thu 14 May 2009, 11:56, Reply)

ignorant twatshafts
not so much the victim of sustained bullying, but occasionally fucked over/slapped about. I managed to get into a decent secondary school, but for our year they experimented with not having entrance exams, so a core of sub-normal, slopey-headed, protochav wankers got in as well.
I escaped the worst of their charms but it culminated in getting shot in back of the head by the head git armed with an air pistol while i was innocently walking to a mate's house. Luckily the two bottles of wine i was carrying helped me forget about the blood running down the back of my neck. Told me dad that i'd banged my head on a wall bracket at the friends house.

Head git later tried to rob a post office with a sawn off air rifle and got busted, knob.
(amazinglasercow now sporting terawatt mining lasers, Thu 14 May 2009, 11:54, 2 replies)

nsfw
bzzzzzmzzzzzzzbzzzzmzzzzz

Uncle Bully....

bzzzzzmzzzzzzzbzzzzmzzzzz

Uncle..... Fucking..... BULLY!
( enoughblueskyforsailorstrousers, Thu 14 May 2009, 11:21, 1 reply)

Theodicy
If bullying is wrong, why does god allow so many easy targets?
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Thu 14 May 2009, 11:12, 1 reply)

Bullying Teacher…..Bah
I was never one of the cool kids at school and never really got any grief like the rest of the replies. So until i can think of any bad puns, movie references or traumatic incidents I have blocked from my mind this entry comes from my other half C and her cousin, R.

My wife and all her family went to a local catholic school where things were very religious (As in they had a couple of nuns teaching lessons in RE etc etc). One of the non servant of god teachers Miss Passman (Name not changed) was a tad demented. She would single out certain pupils and make it her job to make her lessons a living hell for the poor individual. Her victims were usually the easy targets such as the timid girl in the class who would burst into tears as soon as Passman called her a dirty little cow for dying her hair, wearing jewellery etc etc.

Then one day she chose to pick on R. R is a great bloke and has always been a bit on the tall side, not scrawny either. The problem is that (during the time at school anyway) he was a little timid and would not stick up for himself when challenged by an authority figure.

Mid way through his first day at school he had a lesson with Miss Passman. Upon entering the room the harpy teaching the lesson realised that R had a wart on his finger, and being the sensitive soul that she was she decided to point it out to the rest of the class by waving her arms manically and yelling at the top of her lungs that R was filthy, dirty little boy etc etc until R left the room, visibly upset.

While Miss Passman went back to add a sticker to her chart of pupils she has beaten down emotionally, out in the corridor R bumped into C (My guess is C was off for a sly smoke at the time). C saw that R was upset and he told the entire story to her and C snapped, while C was one of the popular kids at school she hated bullies.

She burst into the lesson and gave Miss Passman a full on bollocking in front of the class, mentioning the fact that Passman should pick on people her own size instead of her little cousin (Despite the fact that R was a good foot taller than C).

One of the teachers in the neighbouring classes heard the commotion and realising it was someone else’s voice other than Miss Passman came to investigate. When the said teacher came to the room he found a very pissed off C stood at the front of the class and a very scared looking Miss Passman attempting to hide under her desk (Maybe she had an escape tunnel under there).

C left the room with a final line to leave her cousin alone and the incident was never brought up again (Although Passman stayed well away from the whole of my wifes family throughout the rest of their school lives)

Bullies- no matter what form they come in, they don’t like it when the boot is on the other foot.
(mon bison powered by magnets, Thu 14 May 2009, 11:12, Reply)

The Rodeo - Apologies for length, should be worth it...
Ive had my fair share of bullies in my time, mostly due to my dream job as a kid... Rodeo Cowboy,

I used to love it (and still do). Watching a guy pit his wits against a raging animal, getting flung about and playing with lassoo's was surely what every aspiring good idea dreams about doing when they grow up?

I even had all the gear, boots with little spurs, chaps, check shirts and an ace cowboy hat with a sheriff badge! Used to where it everywhere... including school. Kind of put yourself forward for it if your dressed as a cowboy dont you.

My story doesn't centre around my school bullying though would you belive, as about the most original thing the mongs could come up with was riding me round the playground shouting 'yeee hawwww'... Infact it is a story of adult bullying, but why the guff about you loving horses I hear you say? Well a couple of years ago I realised my dream, come nightmare, as it turned out in the end...

For my 21st birthday my parents bought me plane tickets to America and enlisted me on a 2 week 'Rodeo camp'. For the first hour or so I really didn't believe this kind of wonderful place existed! But its true and through teary eyes I thanked my parents and a couple of days later I was on a plane, giddy as school kid who's just downed 5 espressos.

I turned up at 'El Rancho Blanco' and could hardly contain myself, it was just as I'd always dreamed! Huge dusty expanse of the Wild West with a big ol' barn in the middle, I could even see some people russtling up some vittles... It was perfect.

That is until the first meal where we got to meet the other people on this camp, lots of cowboy looking people... Rugged would be the term I'd use, or stacked. I however am not either of those things, nor am I American and, once again, stuck out like pair of fake breasts. Oh the irony, too cowboy to be English, to English to be a cowboy.

The bullying was pretty brutal, almost got branded at one point, had to eat alone (again) and was generally treated like shit by everyone including the instructors who seemed to take a lot of pleasure out of making my dream turn horribly wrong.

I refused to let them beat me though, this was my dream and god damn it im going to be a cowboy! So I took the beatings, the extra chores, the lot and just got on with it.

The strange thing is, you do kind of, i dont know how to describe it, understand the animals you train with. They know what your doing and you can see it in their eyes if they're gonna savage you or just throw you about a bit. Especially with the cows, one in particular I took as my only friend there and on a couple of occasions I stayed on him longer than anyone else could! None of the usual congratulations for me though, rather beastiality based japery...

By mid way through the second week it was getting all too much for me and I was crying in the cattle enclosure, trying to be by myself. All of a sudden my best Bull friend (who I called Barry, so creative) came over to the side of his pen and sort of beckoned me over with his head. Id been talking to him quite a bit before so this didn't seem strange, we were pals afterall. I walked over, still sobbing, and he actually pushed my chin up with his massive bull nose until I was looking strait at him. Then he moved back a bit and made a grand gesture of standing up strait and magnificent, stomping his hoves and generally being manly (or the Bull equivalent) and I knew what he meant... I had to stand up to these cowboy bullies, stop just taking it and fight back!

I felt great at that point and strode out of the enclosure like a new man, Barry even mooed me off, I loved Barry.

Then the next day came and I was fully ready... We were out with the bulls, and Barry was up first. Of course the calls of "Hey cow fucker, get in there with your boyfriend" and the like started up immediately.

I looked over at Barry, he nodded back, and I swung for the nearest guy, knocking him clean off his feet, go me!... It all went a bit downhill from there, the other 20 or so burley men all laid into me and I recieved the kicking of my life. It was ok though until they all threw me into the pen with Barry. I could take a kicking off those cnuts, but what I couldn't take was a 20 tonne bastarding bull goring me in the ass as I lay on the floor... I swear I could hear him laughing in his bullish voice, mocking me just like the rest.

I was airlifted to the nearest hospital and swore never to set foot in America again. And that ladies and gentlemen is my last, and only, experience of "Bull-lies"... the bastard
(Is this a good idea? ... Yes this is definitely a good idea, Thu 14 May 2009, 11:08, 2 replies)

BEVERLEY HILLS COP & THE SUPERGLUE INCIDENT
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.

What a STUPID FUCKING PRICK!

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,

absolutely

fucking

terrifying...

(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)...
( SpankyHanky, Thu 14 May 2009, 11:06, 11 replies)

Anyone else get this?
At primary school, one of the boys started "going out" with a girl, holding hands, giving her his best pogs and passing notes to her in class. When this secret daring affair was bought to the attention of the rest of the class a whole bunch of people started teasing him and taking the piss, often by shouting out "Gay!". Even at that age I kind of wondered how going out with a girl made you gay.....
(Fredz A graveyard of hopes, a dump of ambition, Thu 14 May 2009, 11:03, 4 replies)

One of the bigger boys
had decided that it was my turn for some physical abuse in the playground that day.

"Leave me alone or I'll kick your head in" I warned him.
"You couldn't reach that high" he replied and he and his mates fell about laughing.
"I could" I insisted.
"Go on then". He invited me to try standing tall and erect in front of me.

Hmmm, what to do? I clearly couldn't kick him in the head as he was about 5'6" whereas I was about 4'6" so I decided to suprise him by kicking him somewhere else. I planted my foot into his pubic area with all my might. He let out a shriek and was soon hobbling around, bent double, nursing his throbbing manhood.

"You were right" I said, "I couldn't reach".

He muttered some threats but never troubled me again from that day on.
( stopmeandslapme Cometh the hour, cometh your mum, Thu 14 May 2009, 10:42, 2 replies)

if we don`t get a decent QOTW next week i`ll steal your tuck shop money and call you smelly.

sulks
(Nahla, Thu 14 May 2009, 10:27, Reply)

Hahahaha. Bring back any memories to a generation?
www.grangehillfans.co.uk/schoolreport/gripperstebson.php
(Bear Pookie The Frankly Challenged. Halloween is coming to town., Thu 14 May 2009, 10:26, Reply)

From the teacher's perspective
In the school I worked at bullying was fairly common. Kids were encouraged to tell the teachers, but that was about as useful as telling Mr Blobby. Teachers usually responded by (a) pretending they hadn't heard and ducking into the staffroom (b) telling the kids to ignore it or (c) telling them to stand up to the bullies. Yeah right. You're surrounded by some Neanderthal and his hangers-on and you're supposed to do a Steven Seagal on them?

One kid in my form was consistently accused of bullying but he was smart enough to make sure there was no proof. Once I sent him to the Year Head in desperation. On speaking with the Year Head later, she told me that she was worried the kid was going to hit her. The kid was 12 years old and small for his age, and she was a PE teacher. WTF?

Eventually someone in management had the bright idea of getting victims of bullying to go to the gym at lunchtime. This effectively put kids in detention for being bullied, and since the gym had huge glass windows, gave the bullies an excellent way to choose future victims.

I and a few like-minded teachers found a way to reduce the problem. We were on good terms with some of the hard kids in year 11 and the really hard kids didn't bully anyone - they didn't need to as they had nothing to prove. So in return for a few favours (looking the other way when on smoking patrol, for example) we got them on side. Then when we had to deal with a bully we'd tell or threaten to tell one or other of the hard kids about it. Worked every time.
(eesnahk, Thu 14 May 2009, 10:20, 1 reply)

"Did you bring a tool?"
"What fucking tool?"

"This fucking tool!"

*thwack*
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Thu 14 May 2009, 10:14, 5 replies)

My school had no bullies
I made sure of that by punching and kicking fear into every kid I met, just in case they were a potential bully.

Yeah, it's a repost. FUCK YOU, I'LL FUCK YOU UP!
( chart cat has an itch, Thu 14 May 2009, 10:07, Reply)

I've just been thinking...
In year 8/9 I was best friends with a lad called Aaron McMillan.

One day that all changed, we disagreed over something, and ended up coming to blows. I decided to be the bigger man, and walk away. Our entire group of 'friends' backed him up, and so I was smacked round mercilessly for the next year.

Every time he saw me, he was determined to fight me, as if that would prove a point. When we did come to blows, I floored him (more due to luck than judgement), and was happy, thinking things would change. Nope, they got worse.

He'd decided that because the sun was in his eyes/it was a tuesday/he was too full to fight/some bollucks that I of course hadn't beaten him, but he still made it worse.

Ah well, that's not what I what I've been thinking about. For years I've hated him, I've thought it over time and time again, and I know that if I saw him and didn't get an apology, there's a good chance I'd end up killing him. I truly truly hate the scum.

But at the same time, I should thank him. Due to that fight, I had to find a new group of friends. I headed over to the lad who had shown me round on my first day, and started chatting to him and his mates. I already knew them all, just not that well. Due to integrating with this group, not the others, my life changed massively.

The group I used to be friends with were frankly, chavs. The group I integrated were viewed as Moshers/Goths/etc, who were often bullied at this point. However, as I was well known to the chavs, and my mate was quite funny, people realised that the group weren't all that bad.

I joined that school in 2001, halfway through a year. I was sat with DT. He introduced me to RR-D and DA-D.

I now share a house with DT, went to RR-D's Mum's wedding last year, and still speak to DA-D all the time.

While I hate the bullies for the bullying, I love the fact that they introduced me to the best friends I've ever had, the only reason I didn't snap and end up stabbing them.
( Agnostic Antichrist Baltimora, Thu 14 May 2009, 9:34, 4 replies)

Must agree with /talk comments on this week's QOTW.
The tales of "I overcame adversity."
"I was bummed, survived and saw them - they're now a chav with 6 kids, I'm so much better."
"Thank you for all your beautiful comments."
"Hugs."
If I was bum raped/bullied, I wouldn't come on the net and tell the world. I CERTAINLY wouldn't come on B3TA ffs.
Yeah, shit happens to everyone. Deal with it.
Can we have a SpankyHanky long, rambling pervy tale of sex and wanking now please?
(Bear Pookie The Frankly Challenged. Halloween is coming to town., Thu 14 May 2009, 9:28, 12 replies)

Story Number 3, Cheshire Kids are Cunts (pearoast)
Well, I feel I should give a bit of a back story to this tale, so apologies in advance for length,

I moved, and moved schools between year 11 and 12 (aged 16 to our merkin friends). At my old school, I was always known as the one with the risque sense of humour, always telling the jokes that would make people nervous, and greatly enjoying the debate that would inevitably occur over one of my many sexist jokes. So I decided to implement this at my new school asap (in hindsight, not the best idea)

It was 2 weeks into the new term, and we had a "Driving Safety Talk" in which a woman stood at the front and plied 150 bored sixth formers with facts. By the end, she was having a bit of a laugh and joke, so people were shouting out responses to her facts.

One of her facts was "Lads, you're more likely to be in a car accident", so I quickly responded "Isn't that because women crash into us?". Silence.

Complete silence, as everyone (bar the only two people who would speak to me)looked at me as if I was something they'd just stepped in (even the lads ffs).

Handily, the woman gave a bit of a snigger, and carried on, so I didn't think anything more of it. I was very wrong.

For the next week, I had people shouldering into me in the corridor, lads trying to start a fight with me "because i'd offended their girlfriend" and so on and so forth. Basically, utter bullshit.

However, out of this mire, one group of 8 stood out in their nastiness more than others. They would follow me, threaten me, abuse me. At one point, they even wrote an email claiming to be from me, insulting every member of that group, and stuck it on the common room wall early one morning. The problem with their theory? I was late that day, and the entire group saw me arrive, as they were stood enjoying a mid morning cancer stick. So that plan was fucked. The most entertaining fact was that they still tried to blame me, after I pointed out the numerous spelling errors ("You might have done that on purpose?") and when i pointed out they'd seen me arrive that morning ("Maybe you got someone else to put it up for you"). At this point, I was going to snap, as I'd been trying me hardest to be nice to this lot, and they were just being childish.

And snap I did.....I started absolutely laughing my tits off! Half dying, I couldn't even finish sentences. "So you're saying.....hahahaha.....that.....I got someone else?.....hahaha....to put this up....BULLSHIT!". Then continued to giggle. I asked if James Bond was also involved, and should I contact MI6 and ask where I was at 0900 that morning.

However, they were so thick they didn't actually get that I was insulting them, usual cheshire really.

Oh...Karma? Ok, i'll get to the point...

The next week, they were insulting a nameless person while I was sat there, and I knew full well they were talking about me. It was one sentence that day, that stuck in my mind when I finally decided enough was enough (as I'm not a violent person anymore), and went to the head of 6th form, as I'm sick of being bullied.

That phrase was, "Sexists never get anywhere in life, he'll end up getting sacked from McDonalds straightaway". Now, they knew I was starting at McDonalds the next week, so it was fairly obvious they were on about me.

Now comes the fun...
It's been 3 years since then, and here's what's happened to that group. (Initials because I can't be arsed to type full names, they're the real initials)

JS - Now 20, with a baby and still living with his mummy.
KL - Discovered her beloved boyfriend was shagging her best friend - haven't spoken in over a year. Now failing at Uni somewhere.
S - Regularly seen in Costa Coffee, cleaning the floor as I walk past after work from my well paid job.

Those three made my life a living hell for two years, so I'm glad they're unhappy.

Bullys are cunts, not matter what age they are.

Length? Seems longer now it's bald!
( Agnostic Antichrist Baltimora, Thu 14 May 2009, 9:23, 4 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.
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Thu 14 May 2009, 9:06, 4 replies)

Big boys
stole all my Star Wars figures and my first 500 issues of 2000AD, leaving me potentially penniless.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 14 May 2009, 9:02, 8 replies)

Talk about timing.
I was at the bus stop with a friend of mine after school today. She was looking down so I asked her what was up. She told me some of the boys at school had been giving her a hard time, calling her names and harrassing her and she had no idea why. She was nearly in tears telling me and I was nearly in tears hearing it.

So I did what I normally do when comforting people. I gave her a massive squeezy hug and a kiss on the forehead.

And out of nowhere comes a barrage of abuse. Apparently the boys who'd been harrassing her had been right nearby and were watching us the whole time. "EMO!" "Fucking lezzers!" "Whores!" was yelled at us. One boy walked up to us and yelled "You sluts are fucking FILTH". He then spat on the ground at our feet and walked off.

Where the fuck were the teachers to stop this happening?
Less then 15m away. They did nothing. They didn't see it.

I gave her another hug and went to find a teacher as soon as she'd left. I found one and told him what had gone on.

I can (well I can't really but I'm used to it now) deal with it happening to me because I've been putting up with it for nearly 11 sodding years.
I'm fucked if I'm letting it happen to her. Dobbing? Absolutely. If it helps her - I really don't care less. I hope the pricks get suspended or expelled.
(Poppet some assembly required., Thu 14 May 2009, 8:51, 8 replies)

Wormulus' tale below reminds me
of my old pal Hamish, who was pressured by older boys into going into the local Chinese and ordering 'Bruce Lee on toast'.
( Monty Boyce, My cheese game is strong, Thu 14 May 2009, 8:44, 1 reply)

A new boy started at my younger brother's school. The boy was called Sam Wong and didn't speak much English.
Sam Wong was in the dinner queue with my brother and some other students.

'What should I ask for?'
Said Sam Wong in his halting English

'Chips and bastard'
came the reply.

They also used to say 'what's wong?', 'why the wong face?' and other hilarious things to him.
( WormuIus, Thu 14 May 2009, 8:29, 4 replies)

Ahhh the good "B@bl@ke old boys"
5 years of pure hell. Every day, names, physical crap, stealing, threats, taunts. UGLY UGLY UGLY like a mantra in my ears.. FAT FAT FAT. "hair" "weight" the trend was to say just the one word. The teachers joined in too. The fault was mine of course, being overweight, having glasses, bad hair and an ugly name. It is 20 years on, and I've dealt with most of the phobias, aversions and issues they left me with.
For A good 17 years I believed I deserved the abusive men who I dated. The gang rape, yeh, ugly, dowdy me, I was begging for it with my loose, colourless clothing. I deserved that when he couldn't change my individuality and make me conform to what he wanted, my ex kidnapped my four beautiful daughters.
Of course I deserved that I can't bear to let me loving, wonderful boyfriend see me naked. That I walked around blind until contact lense technology gave me sight, 14 years later. To this day the thought of wearing glasses myself makes me physically sick.
The social phobias I conquered, yep, I hold my hand up to that.
That I have had anorexia and bulimia in varying combinations since I was 16. My biggest achievement was and still is, weighing less than 6 stone. I thought being the archetypal skinny, popular blonde (albeit with my usual gothic flair) would make everything okay, finally. It didn't.

Years of drugs and self-destruction, always believing what they said about how ugly and worthless I was. The bone deep slashes making my arms look tiger-striped. All brought on by myself.
In all honesty, I did in the end develop a victim mentality. I overcame that. I overcame a lot, and I work every day to beat anything that rears back up. I have a baby daughter, who is my first child if anyone asks. The lies we tell to save questions, eh?
It took me a long time to put myself back together, class of '91, but I did it. Im strong now and I might not have the big fancy career , yeh.. I couldn't cope with any more education after I left aged 15.. but I love my job, and I'm loved, I have a fearsome reputation for the work I do and I'm well known. That's enough for me.
And....I'm still true to myself, I still "look like something out of doctor who". How many of you conformed, always, too scared to leave the centre of the herd?
I changed my name, my life and my world to become to person I want to be, not the ugly little nothing you saw. I don't need validation and I don't care to even the score, you aren't worth my time. I bet the demons that drove you are with you still.

If I could say one thing to you , I'd say, it matters not one bit if someone is fat, or ugly, or blind, and "attractive" and shallow people aren't somehow "better than yew". Get a life. You all coasted thru life eh.. I fought for every. little. thing. For my life.

Success is the best revenge, and I am a success, to many people I love. Because, I am still here. You all at one point told me you wanted to see me die. Sorry lads...and ladies too, no can do.

Now.. If I can just stop with the food issues.....
Without love,
Me.
( LittleWhiteTreat, Thu 14 May 2009, 8:17, 8 replies)

A cheerful story
I play in a moderately succesful ska band. I love everyone single member of it to bits, and I'm lead to believe they feel similarly warmly about me. Nevertheless, that doesn't mean we aren't frequently cunts to each other, I believe the infamous 'cock sandwich' incident has already been related by our bassist shitbitch on the food sabotage question.

By a stroke of bad luck I am the single most ticklish entity I've ever met. I have ticklish elbows. I can even tickle myself, which apparently you're not even supposed to be able to do. Regrettably, I have not been able to keep this completely secret and everyone knows they need only make as if to tickle me to induce the loudest fits of whooping laughter since that dreadful incident at the Nos factory that I just made up for the purposes of this scintillating example of figurative language.

So, picture the scene. It is August, and we are camping in a layby somewhere near Tamworth, of all places. We follow the usual post gig routine of setting up the tents somewhere where it looks like we won't be disturbed by angry landowners at some ungodly hour of the morning (not always with 100% success) then getting ourselves fucked in half off cheap boxes of wine and copious amounts of marijuana. It's a bit like On the Road, but less glamorous and with significantly less shagging. There is a massive field to our left with train tracks running along the bottom, and some kind of light industrial estate to our right. We are pretty much all alone in every direction.

It's about one in the morning, I think, and there is not much wine left (country manor is preferred, because not only is it dirt cheap, it's also endlessly amusing to conceal some of the letters so it says 'cunt man'. Truly, it is a joke that never gets old), so the only way forward on our quest for new and exciting mental states is to hot box the van. We do this. Everything takes on a sharp, surreal quality, the air hangs heavy with smoke and time slows to a snail's pace. My heart begins to samba beneath my skin as bollocks issues forth from my mouth with alarming alacrity (whoever she might be). On cannabis, I am no longer a humble skinny teenager, but an amalgamation of Cicero and Aldous Huxley when it comes to making outstanding orations on the nature of all things.

My dear, dear friends are also caned to oblivion and think that perhaps, whilst listening to me in full flow is a great pleasure and very enlightening to boot, it might also be fun to tickle me a bit, seeing as my limbs aren't quite up for doing what they're told. Tickling proceeds to much mirth all round. I was on the middle seats of the three rows we have in the van, enabling tickling to take place from all directions, tickling to the left of me, tickling to the right of me, into the valley of giggles road your humble narrator, helpless to resist. I have quite a hearty laugh at the best of times, but under this sort of extreme tickling I can only really be compared to Krakatoa in all its might, erupting with great molten flows of cachinnation.

Suffice to say, dear reader, I was fairly helpless, but it was all harmless fun. The idea, however seems to spread across the group of my assailants, as if by osmosis, that perhaps this would be funnier if I was naked. Now, As a band we are no strangers to each others bodies, and I believe this is as it should be, but I do object to being forcibly undressed. Nonethless, forcibly undressed I was, still howling from the ceaseless vellication being inflicted upon me. When at last I was parted from my boxers, I was left, spent, panting and gasping on the floor of our van as my bandmates cackled with glee.

Some minutes later, still considerably stoned and no less drunk, I found myself still buck naked, chasing after my clothed friends wielding my boxers like the scalp of some vanquished enemy, hooting with vicious delight, round a field somewhere near Tamworth. It is at times like this when I do have to wonder, 'how, really, has my life come to this? What kind of divine path layed out for me to follow includes chasing your best friends who have stolen your clothes in some field far from places I know while my head throbs not altogether pleasantly from excessive amounts of chemicals I've just welcomed eagerly into my body?'

Still, it's a bloody good story.
(WarneMarsh My priority for frivolity begets quality jollity, Thu 14 May 2009, 4:30, 5 replies)

Hmmmm . . . .
this isn't going to be funny, or particularly impressive, but here's what suburban Melbourne was like in the 70s/80s for a Greek kid . . .

I grew up in the eastern suburbs of Melbourne, and started kindergarten at 3 (I was keen to start early!). I was fairly bright as a kid, I could read before I started "proper school" (thanks Dad!) and I could spell my own surname (which is bloody long and not very Anglo Saxon).

The Primary school I ended up in consisted of the equivalent of today's Chavs. Being the *only* wog (calm down, it's not an insult here any more, but it was then) until my brother and a Sri Lankan family showed up, meant those seven years were fun, to say the least.
We did have a Vietnamese girl in the same year as me, but she was quiet, and as she did all the pretty drawings that the shit-for-brains teachers wanted, and she had lovely, girly handwriting, she was forever branded an "angel" and never bothered (being Asian, it was also far less acceptable for her to be the target of my white-trash teacher, but the Greek was fair game).

Where to start? I (and brother-in-law of Legless) were always walked to school, always had a decent lunch packed for us, always had clean, patch-free clothes (the significance of this is that two migrants on minimum wage kept their children looked-after). We didn't necessarily have a lot, but I don't remember complaining for a lack of anything.

I had a combination of nice but indifferent teachers, and one in particular who I hope is burning in the confines of Hell. She, funnily enough, was married to an Englishman (a Geordie I realiise now!) and at the time, was about 50-60 years old. I never heard a word of encouragement from this sorry excuse for a human being, and she delighted in making my brother feel like a thicko (who was, and is, not academically minded . . . but is a bright little bugger when he wants to be). I spent two years with this harridan, wondering why the other kids would get the smiles and nods of ecouragement, and I would get a scowl for the same/much better work. Why someone giving me scars on my knees I still have now from repeatedly knocking me into a wall never received punishment, but me slapping the same bastard for an insult was repayed with a seesion in the corner of the room (funnily enough, she never told my parents).

I remember having my father come up to school more mornings than I'd like to "discuss" (ie: come close to knocking the stuffing out of) some little shit who thought bashing me/ making fun of my name/culture/family and be told by this shining example of public teaching that "he meant no harm, and his Mum's a single mother, surely you should feel sorry for him."

So, why am I reasonbly well balanced as adult, with no particular scars (other than physical) from my fun time there?

I left that school as a grade 6, and was sent to a Catholic secondary school - nothing posh, just one where academic results were important enough to decide whether you remained enrolled - you work hard, you stay. And most of those attending were non-Anglo Saxon. In fact, I could count them on one hand . . .

No one gave a rat's arse what you looked like, what your name was; and if you could read well, and enjoyed studying, people actually *liked* you. A far cry from the hole in the ground I spent seven years festering in.

That primary school has since been bulldozed; I cheered the day they brought the wrecking ball in.


It's unpleasant to recall any part of that time; but just like all phases of one's life - it's gone. The old bag has since, I'm told passed away . . . and un-Christian though it is, I'm relieved to hear it. Many of the children at that school are probably living out their lives like the rest of us - there's no comfort in thinking that they'll be destitute, or dead, or raising mini-Chavs in Moe.

More to the point, their behaviour back then had to come from somewhere - children don't become racists (that's probably what we would call that today) off their own bat. More influential than what's on TV, the environment at home probably had a lot to do with how they behaved at school.

So, to the old class of 1987, I hope you're lives are fulfilling, and I hope the racists stereotypes your folks instilled at home have gotten you into all sorts of trouble . . . especially in grown up land, where there's no teacher there to make excuses for you . . .
( Mrs Legless . . . belongs to, well, you know . . . :), Thu 14 May 2009, 4:01, 3 replies)

I want to hear from more bullies
cunts they might be, but I'll bet a story of cruelty inflicted on somebody else is a whole lot funnier than a harrowing account of cruelty inflicted on the writer.

Revenge stories are always best though.
( Fitznicely into a thimble, Thu 14 May 2009, 1:52, Reply)

Infant School Shenanigans
Short and sweet this one. There was this kid, who for the sake of argument and accuracy we shall call Paul Young. He picked on me mercilessly, so my Dad (the Para) told me "Next time he does it, punch him on the nose - right where it hurts", and I ended up in a whole shitload of trouble.

I'd just heard "Punch him on the nose", so I did, the next time I saw him, which was when he was minding his own, playing in the sandpit. They had to change the sand for some with less blood and snot in it. Upside was I ended up in his gang though, and spent the next 4 years getting into trouble for shouting "FANNY!" whenever possible. Barnsley was great in the 70's

Length? About a 10 foot run up.
(nobbyd is wanking furiously to industrial grade porn on, Thu 14 May 2009, 1:19, Reply)

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.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Thu 14 May 2009, 1:03, 3 replies)

Echoing what Maladicta said...
Bullies are evil. No exceptions.

I suppose, looking back on it now, that my life was set up to be the perfect victim. I aced all my tests in Primary School, so much that I was recommended for the local Grammar School, so off a little UM 11 year old I went to take the 11+. I passed, and was reliably informed that I'd passed with a 90+% score. This fit with my mothers belief that I was some sort of child prodigy, and as such, I was brought up to believe that I was cleverer than most people. I'm not, as it happens, I just have my strong points which were brought out in Primary School.

I was also "poor". I lived in a single parent, council house family with no maintenance coming in from my absent father and a mother who worked 48+ hours a week and did her level best to bring me and my younger (by 5 years) brother up. So latest trainers, computer systems and Sky Tv was out the window.

So I started at the (all boys) Grammar School, and from the first day I hated it. The school claimed to be one of the best in the country, and it was rather obvious how it was able to claim that with the statistics - any pupil who didn't have the ability to score a C grade in a subject at GCSE was not entered for the exam. Some mega-rich parents had quite happily bought their spawn a place at the school, so the school was full of rich kids and posh boys. Me, being neither, stood out like a house on fire. Not only that, but I had a love of learning at the time, and was happy to go to every lesson and be the teachers pet.

Like I said, perfect victim.

It didn't take long for the verbal abuse to start...comments about my haircut or lack of "brand name" trainers/coats were first. Then comments about my sexuality, which in an all boys school, is not the best thing. 3 solid years, I was the class/year/school "faggot". There was some respite in the summer terms because I was one of the top cricketers in my year, so I could always hang around with the same boys who made my life a misery in the earlier terms because I wasn't a natural rugby player and hated the game. The physical abuse started later, little kicks in the knee, elbows to the side of the head when in groups, but nothing that could be outwardly spotted. I knew, deep down, that I should have gone to an authority figure, but kept it bottled up. My grades slipped. I was doing the bare minimum to pass and survive, forgoing homework so I could go out with the few friends I had at home (none of which went to the school). The school bullying lasted from the 2nd day of Year 7 til the last day before the GCSEs of Year 11.

Why did it stop? I still had 2 years of 6th Form at that place. It stopped because what my home "friends" did to me was much worse than anything that happened at school.

They set me on fire.

In my Year 9, our group of friends expanded to add a newcomer who had just moved into a vacant house with his family. This guy was the epitome of the "cool kids" and we jumped at the chance to add him to our group. Anyway, over the 2 years, he started to make sly digs and do things so that the group would look up to him. That meant targeting me. And to cut a long story short, it ended up with 2 other friends "spilling" nail varnish remover all over one of my shirts and lighting it "to see if it'll go up". Whilst I was wearing the shirt.

I spent a night in hospital with 2nd degree burns and they got away scot free because a police officer turned up at the hospital whilst I was delirious and I inadvertantly protected them by saying it was an accident. I lived in that area for another 4 months and had abuse hurled at me daily. I eventually got away from it all and when telling my story at school, I earned a lot of respect because the "incident" happened a week before my GCSEs and I still managed to get enough to get into 6th Form. That saved my last 2 years and I was the "kid that survived the fire".

What the bullies did to people like Vampyrecat, Hair Pot, myself, Maladicta and others on here is despicable. How some of you have survived and had the courage to not let it effect you is great. I wish I could have. Instead, I'm a stressed out wreck of a man who can barely leave the house unless under controlled conditions. The bullies don't deserve a second chance.

Yet most of us end up giving it to them anyway...

(Apologies for length, I'm inconsiderate and introspective)
(TheUnthinkingMinority needs some new music to listen to., Thu 14 May 2009, 0:41, 5 replies)

What happens to make a person into a bully?
Reading some of the posts on here make me realise that apart from one or two events I led a charmed life during my school days.
On the few occasions someone had a go at me I had one response.
I would slap them across the face.
This did result in a few full on catfights, and boy did I fight dirty.
If any of their flesh happened to be in front of my face I would bite it.
After one girl had to go for a tetanus jab and told everyone I'd given her rabies I was pretty much left alone.
Until the school hardcase, a girl even the teachers were afraid of noticed me.
I cant remember what she said, but in front of her gang I slapped her face.
Then closed my eyes and waited to get killed in a hundred different ways.
When I opened them she and her gang had gone
WTF?
I spent days waiting for the inevitable attack
Then on the weekend I happened to be walking down an alley and there she was.
With a very odd look on her face
She grabbed my arm and pulled me through the yard and into the house.
I was expecting a room full of girls with weapons but it was empty.
And I mean empty, Ive never seen a home so lacking in comforts.
Bare floor, a couple of ramshackle chairs and little else.
She asked if i wanted a drink, and kept looking at the door nervously.
Then we went upstairs to her bedroom, (dont ask I was just coasting)
I think I asked her if she was going to hurt me, i was seriously confused where this was going.
Then this man walked in and asked who the fuck was I and to get out.
She gave me this scared look asked me to stay.
But I decided it was best I got out of there because this was scary in ways I didnt understand
I remember her face as I made for the door and this man shouting at her to get undressed and asking me if i wanted to stay and play.
Ok back then I didnt understand this, as an adult now I do :(
After that if we saw each other she acted like she didnt know me, was like that never happened.

Being a kid I just got on with things and forgot about it, until this QOTW.
I've no idea what became of her

The only other incidents of being bullied were by teachers.
The first when i was in infants school, she had the same surname as me and made my life hell. I got the slipper on a daily basis ( outs my age there ;) ) for no real reason.
She used to make me stand in the corridor when interesting things were happening in class, called me every name under the sun.

Was only many years later I realised she was my dads first wife, pfft

So I now understand what made them into bullies, but......

The 2 PE teachers
One who slapped me across the face leaving bleeding nail marks acros my cheek,
Ok Fair play I called her a slut (she was) but she did call me a rebellious cow ( i probably was, I would backchat any teacher who I thought was being unfair)

And the other who made me continue gymnastics after I dislocated a toe, FFS my big toe was at 90 degree angle to my foot and she said i was faking it.

Shit happened to me, but I didnt ever become a bully

Well not until much later when I got paid for it ;)
(insomniac-surfer oh go on then, just this once, Thu 14 May 2009, 0:33, Reply)