b*stard
I got beaten up in school because my mate decided to go for a dump during lunch break.

b*stard.
(British Steel was participating in awesomeness on, Fri 15 May 2009, 7:06, Reply)

I was the bully
I was never the tough guy, being below average in sports and average in all subjects bar English. I was the 'fringe' man in the group of cool kids and were great friends with the 'tier 2' boys in school. It can be said that i was the epitome of average.

This story happened in primary school. There were a pair of twin brothers who were...mongish, but not totally so. They obviously had a lower than average IQ and were just 'weird'. One of them was in my class and the other one was next door. I took a liking into bullying the one in my class, constantly hitting him and generally making his life miserable. Of course, i was not the only one doing the bullying and other 'cooler' kids dished it out worse, but i still feel bad to this day. His elder twin would always stand up for the younger brother, going into a kung fu stance which usually ended up with him being on the floor with a bloody nose. Soon, we graduated and went to different secondary schools.

Anyway, fast forward to 12 years later. I was browsing through the newspapers that day when i saw a familiar name. It was the elder twin. He had stabbed a guy 17 times with a flick knife in the middle of a crowded mall. Apparently the victim had been his primary bully in secondary school. He was later diagnosed with schizophrenia and was put in the mad house. Quite frankly, if he had lost the plot in primary school i think i wouldn't be here typing this.
(deven_shire, Fri 15 May 2009, 5:47, 4 replies)

Slightly related to the topic, so I apologise . . .
but I've glanced through the entries so far this week and noticed a recurring theme: the use of racist words by the ethnicity they refer to - in plain English, me calling myself a "wog" - and how this is viewed. Some see it as a way of turning the tables on racism, others see it as misguided ethnic pride.

Here's my theory:
Once upon a time, these phrases were horribly taboo, and vicious insults. For those of my parents' generation, they were whispered, and hinted at, or said quickly in the hope the non-native-English speaker would miss it. This generation never wants to hear them spoken again...

Next came their children - they heard these funny names when they younger, and as adults, they use them to identify themselves . . . now, whether this is to diffuse the effect of those words, or as a misguided attempt at being ironic, I can't say . . . I will use the word wog (and watch Legless cringe as I say it) to mean two different things: the big, brash second generation Greek (usually male) who acts like their father, and wants a doormat wife like their Mum was/is, and brags about how big their car/house/job is compared with yours . . . all with the help of Mama and Mpampa of course; I also call those who "ham up" their Greekness to piss of the non-Greeks wogs.

I'm sure there are those out there who use these words to reclaim them - make them sting less because they're now used by the minority they were aimed at. Whatever works for you, I suppose.
( Mrs Legless . . . belongs to, well, you know . . . :), Fri 15 May 2009, 4:30, 2 replies)

Bullied
I was an easy target, porky, bookish and weird. Loved Star Trek and Dr who and hated Rugby. Not a good combo in a South Wales all Boys comp in the early 80's.

Teasing I could cope with, name calling I took with a dose of misery, but I really understood what it meant to be in equal measure hated and reviled by the time I started my third year.

I can still taste the fear, the confusion and incomprehension of why these "cool kids" would go out of thier way to make my life a complete misery. It must have been something I was doing, so I stopped talking to anyone. I took my breaks hiding under the stairs or round the back by the bins, but the cunts found me there. I told a teacher who found me hidden in a disused toilet once, he said (as did my Dad when I told him) to "stand up for myself" and to "be a man". Bastards.

I really fucking hated the Teachers, who couldn't care less, or actively enjoyed egging the kids on. Its a real power rush for a 40 year old to humiliate a 14 year old boy in front of 35 other kids eh? Wankers.

I developed a cough, which I cultivated for a year. When I got back, after medical science had discovered I was "faking it" I thought I might have been forgotten, Fat chance. It was twice as bad. I was beaten up 3-5 times a week, and was so terrified even younger kids could push me around. I was a wreck.

It stopped when I was attcked in front of the school and had my hands broken (I played guitar, happily I still can) buy 3 of the worst lot. I suppose that someone took notice, because it stopped. All of it, even the name calling.

I left that school and went to a college in the next town where I wasn't bullied, and actually had friends. That was where I started to realize that actually being weird, bookish and kind of odd translated to interesting and fun to be around, as long as your audience wasn't a bunch of repressed psycho's with s&m issues. I met my wife there, and I have been happy ever since.

But this QOTW has bought forth memories. How did this affect me?

I fucking hate Teachers (which is odd, cos quite a few of my mates are Teachers, but they must be the nice ones) bullies make me heave and I cant be in a crowded room without having my back to a wall, I also cant sit with my back to a door (which always amuses my mates)

BTW, Jason John and Chris Oatley, I hope you die in the most painful way possible you cunts. You ruined my childhood
(micmac is happy as a pig in shite, Fri 15 May 2009, 2:32, Reply)

something fishy
Four years ago i was taped up with parcel tape and slapped across the face with a raw fish.

Im strangely proud.
(bobisnotmyname, Fri 15 May 2009, 0:21, Reply)

Bullies Reunited
Maybe someone could bang a site together, so that we could name our tormentors and what they've done and then other people could post what these ex-bullies are doing now, so that the victims can have some peace of mind that bullies never prosper. Invariably, those who bullied me, seem to have ended up with fairly miserable existances. It'd be nice to have proof of them getting their come uppance.
(lardyboy Next stop, Fissplap Central, Fri 15 May 2009, 0:19, 2 replies)

Ooh, another one...
Being held down and having mud 'painted' on my face, so that I had a stripe across my nose, like Adam Ant. At least it was original, I suppose.

Ah, Gary Williams, thanks for that you cunt.
(lardyboy Next stop, Fissplap Central, Thu 14 May 2009, 23:49, 1 reply)

There's nothing worse...
...than being bullied by the people you consider(ed) friends.

Double points for fighting back and sending one of them home in tears and a bloody shirt, only to have his mum turn up on the doorstep and beat the shit out of your mum in her own hallway while you look on, confused and terrified.

Triple points if she nicks the phone from the sideboard on the way out.

As a consumate victim of bullying of all kinds, I have a number of plans for my children to use to counter the tyrants of the future. Most of them involving punching him in the bollocks, it has to be said.

Length? The last 3 years of primary school, and still going on now.
(a gun that fires other, smaller guns full of jizz, Thu 14 May 2009, 23:33, 2 replies)

Hero by default
As a child in the '70s I was a perfect target for school bullies. Being fiercely proud of being born in Belfast, but living in England, not forgetting that I was at least six inches shorter than everyone else, made me the perfect target. Who wouldn't pick on what the ignorant perceived to be a potential terrorist (oh, must say thanks to the moslems for taking over that mantle, saves me a bundle of hassle). So, I was always picked on, always had names thrown at me; I.S.H. was my particular favourite, Irish Shit Head. Thanks Johnny Ashley, hope you're enjoying being a failure. Oh did I mention I'm drunk, and still quite bitter about some of this. Meh.

Anyway, back to the subject in hand. On the way home from school one day, one of the bullies, Mark Dullingham, was being particularly obnoxious, so I decided to fight back. We scuffled in the street, he kept pushing me down, I kept getting up. He grabbed me round the neck in a head lock, expecting submission, I refused to give in, to the point that he was lifting me by my neck, off the ground. I refused to give in and, eventually, he left me be.

Next day I was called to head of year's office and given a right royal telling off. Amazingly, I was a bit of a hero amongst the few friends I had. Dullingham was off school, as a result of the fight. Admittedly he had a bad back from lifting my sorry arse of the deck, but that didn't seem to matter to my friends.

They do say revenge is a dish served cold. So, should Mark Dullingham of Bedford, be reading this, I hope you enjoy your sad life. Your wife is ugly and you have a shit job and you earn about a quarter of what I do. HAH!!!

A wine and the internet, who needs therapy?

Oh, and Matthew Shinn, when you trod in the dog turd on the way to school and we all started calling you S.T.I.F.F (Shinn Trod In Festering Faeces), I apologies for joining in. I was just so glad they weren't picking on me. BTW, you may have guessed, it was the Ashley cunt that thought that up.

I fucking hate thinking about all of this, so I'm going for a bit of a cry now. Thanks a fucking bunch B3ta.
(lardyboy Next stop, Fissplap Central, Thu 14 May 2009, 23:25, Reply)

Facebook
I expect some have already mentioned this, but have you had the bullies and other cocks from your school days add you as a "friend" on facebook? I've had a few do that, each time i ignored.

From this i then get a message asking, not how I am, or even how life is treating me these days, but why i won't become number 7,835 on their "Friends" list.

Simple, you were a cock in school and now nearly 10 years on you still seem a cock so if I wasn't friends with you then what makes you think the magic of facebook will make me think "Hmm, I should be his friend" when your profile shows you laughing to your mates about getting "pissed as fuck on stella and beating up some randomer lolz".

Reading that i think i sound bitter? Not at all, i just think you're still a twunt.
(One_Winged_Angel Ich Dien, Thu 14 May 2009, 23:05, 4 replies)

Bully Stories:
#1
My school was neither particularly bad nor very good. I was the second biggest (as in tall and broad, not fat) lad in my year and there was one particularly arsehole that went by the (girls) name of Jamie who I did not get along with at all. He was all mouth and no trousers and I couldnt stand the fact that he was getting a reputation as a tough lad even though he had never been in a fight. Anyway one day, on a break, I find him using his new found 'respec' to bully one of my mates Brian. He had him up against the fence and was pushing him demanding money. I decided that this was my opportunity to gain a bit of respect and shut that cunt up once and for all. I ran over and shoved him hard and told him to leave my mate alone in full view of the whole school, I could tell I'd surprised him and this gave me courage, he started with the gob again and to cut a long story short we aranged to fight in the 'Jungle' after school (the jungle was a load of trees at the end of the sports field where we used to go for cigarettes and stinkfinger). I tell you, that was the longest day of my life. When the bell went at 3.30 my heart sank but I had to go or I'd never live it down. My friends and I walked to the jungle and THE WHOLE FUCKING SCHOOL WAS THERE! I bet the teachers were in the crowd somewhere! The crowd parted and there was Jamie looking more scared than I was. This encouraged me somewhat and so as I approached I took the standard boxers position and got within range and BAM! He smacked me right in the temple with a hook, that was it: I LOST THE FUCKING PLOT. I went in windmilling landing blow after blow after blow until he dropped to the ground. I'd won! I couldnt beleive it! I wanted out of there then, so I started walking away when all of a sudden the ground threw itself in my face and just as I realised I'd been kicked in the back, he started kicking me in the ribs and head. I'd had enough now, I wanted this to end so I cried aloud, on the verge of tears "ALL RIGHT, ALL RIGHT, YOU WIN" or something to that effect. And so Jamie had technically won the fight but a lot of people said I had the better of the fight, which actually made me feel much better than I thought it would. I lost the battle but won the war: I bumped into him a few years after school and he was working in a second hand shop. RESULT!

#2
The cock of our school was a huge black lad called Dominic. He was 2 years ahead of me and was already dealing drugs and running with the local gangsters (this is moss side we are talking about so they are not some local joke firm) before his GCSE's and one day, as I'm walking back to school after lunch I see him and his boys walking my way and I made the mistake of trying to avoid eye contact. He grabbed me by the arm and to my surprise thrust a pound into my hand! I was shocked momentarily until he demanded that I go to the chippy for him and get him chips and gravy. To my eternal shame, after some unconvincing refusals I went to the chippy for him. After queuing for ages I get his chips and gravy and started walking back to school to meet him at the gate he uses to tax people (fat kids cant climb fences) when the heavens open up and it started to rain heavilly and the tray of chips and gravy in my hands was not wrapped up. By the time I found him, his dinner looked like dhiorreah. I was not looking forward to this at all. He took one look at at and knocked it out of my hand, put his face right up to mine and told me if I didnt go and get him another lot of chips and gravy in a bag he was gonna stab me up (he carried a knife, he threatened a teacher with it once). To my eternal embarrasment and like a good little bitch I did exactly as I was told. Whenever school days come up in conversation between me and my mates this story always gets the biggest laugh. I hated that school.

EDIT:
#3
This is going waaaaay back to primary school. There was this strange lad who's name escapes me at the moment and even though his age was not yet in double digits he looked just like bernard off 'day of the tentacle'. He was a bit weird: when at the urinals he would pull his pants right down to his ankles. He had no friends. He wasnt even particualarly smart for such a nerdy looking lad. Anyway, one day I was pondering the whole 'Being a Bully Thing' and decided to try it myself. I punched him hard and he ran off crying. The result of this experiment: I felt FUCKING AWFUL! The guilt was crushing and when the teacher pulled me aside to tell me off she must of picked up that I was already more sorry than any punishment she could administer and let me off lightly. Mrs Beale was the name of the teacher, she must be dead by now but she was ace, they say you always rememeber the good teachers. Its bloody true.
( P3L3 is not my real name., Thu 14 May 2009, 22:31, 1 reply)

A bully made me fear myself...
There is nothing funny here.

I was bullied all the way through school. I'm told it started when I was at a playgroup, aged about 2, none of the other kids would let me play with them for some reason. It got gradually worse through primary school and secondary school.

One of the worst offenders, we'll call M. He moved into my primary school in around year 4, went to the same secondary school as me and spent much of his time trying to make me miserable. I would be punched, insulted, laughed at, I had my friends turned against me.

One day, I snapped. At the morning break time, he came up and punched me on the arm without provocation. Until that day, I'd just accepted it all and ignored it. I don't know what changed then, but the next thing I knew, I'd shoved him into a wall and I was gripping his windpipe with my right hand, squeezing hard.

I didn't say anything, I just stared into his eyes with a face full of hatred, watching him attempt to breathe and fail (I'd entirely closed his windpipe). His eyes were filled with fear. I know I held on a long time as he started to go purple. I have no idea how long it actually was, it felt like forever.

Eventually, I was pulled off him, and he dropped to the floor coughing and spluttering, gasping for breath. I was immediately surrounded by the other cunts congratulating me. I had to sit through an hour of geography before lunch. At lunch, I ran home and cried my eyes out, shaking for the whole hour.

Apart from play fighting with my brothers, that's the only time in my life I've ever been violent to another human being. It scared the hell out of me to know that I was capable of doing something like that, and still does. I'm also terrified to think what would have happened if I hadn't been pulled off. Would I have stopped when he passed out? Would I have stopped at all? I like to think I'd have stopped, but I really don't know, and that's the most terrifying thing of all.
(whyamihere, Thu 14 May 2009, 22:03, 3 replies)

Knock knock!
Who's there?

Bully!

Bully who?

Bully Jean is not my lover...
( jim_bob can herd cats., Thu 14 May 2009, 21:54, 4 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

stabbings.

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

bullies?

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
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Thu 14 May 2009, 21:37, 22 replies)

The best maths lesson I never had ... (thanks to the white powder)
Several means of achieving revenge have been offered on this board in the time I’ve been reading. I would like to offer up the best one I ever found, told to me from an unexpected source. This is a straightforward old-ground revenge story, so if that’s not your thing I understand – I have no idea how long this will get - apologies.

***into the past ***

The scene of this story is set in the seconded squalor of secondary school. From years seven to the time I quit the place I was in a pretty tight nit group of about 10 of us. We were the oddballs, the leftovers... but we all muddled along together and I gained some really good friends in the process - with exceptions.

Our main group had its sub-divisions and for large parts of the time it was just us four girls and two guys. Sam (the boy) and Alicia (the girl) were two in my group who had parents who were much richer, much better connected than the rest of us (this being a bog standard comp) and they weren’t afraid to let it show.Ever thought the loners don’t bully their own? Ever thought the worst bullying was just the physical kind? I learnt the answers to those questions over a series of months when we hit year 9. It started as little snide glances and comments about the ... variations in our backgrounds. It escalated into a campaign to slander me by spreading rumours (the subjects aren’t which isn’t important) and trying to involve me in their two-faced bitching contests where anything you say ... will be thrown back in your face the next day.

I can’t say it was any particular thing, but one day I just saw them openly pointing and jeering at me and decided enough was enough – I wanted revenge. I was tired of being made to feel like I only existed for their entertainment. I gave a lot of thought to the kind of revenge I wanted. It wasn’t to be physical, that’s not my style. And I didn’t want it to be malicious or have lasting damage like (certain) rumours can ... besides I didn’t have the kind of influence in our group or the school to spread the kind of rumours they had. Then one day Opportunity came and danced in front of me. I managed to get hold of Sam’s spare locker key. Through cunning means? No, I just happened to notice one day that he kept the two keys together on his bunch – the silly chap! – and lifted one. Suddenly I had access to his locker! Opportunity had bought along her friends Good Fortune and World of Opportunities.

Inspiration eventually came from an unlikely source: my mother. I can’t remember her exact words but suddenly she came out with it in discussion. The old mysterious white powdered substance in the locker trick – to be discovered by a teacher at an opportune moment. I should mention at this point that Sam was in the habit of keeping his bag in his locker at lunch – thus sealing the deal on my means of revenge. I should mention this point that my mum is a legend, and good on this stuff from her own school days. She even ended up being the one who supplied the gear for me – god knows who her contact was.

So now it was a case of timing – as I said, I wanted my revenge to be visual, something I where I could see the effects of my time spent scheming. Maths, period 4 after lunch was the only window of oppurtunity giving me the time I needed. It was the habit of our group to spend lunchtime in the form room of our year base. That lunchtime, on a cold January day I snuck away on some excuse and headed to the locker room area. (the old fashioned steel row things that’ll grab your finger) All the while I was nervous – after all, what if I was found in possession?!

Checking no-one was around (success) I hastily opened his locker and slipped the stuff of powdered goodness into his bag making sure to spread it about like it had burst. I had a good portion of it in a polythene bag (neatly sealed by my good Catholic mother) and had intended to take the bag away (fingerprints! Evidence!) but in the end I had to leave it all there – bag and all. I was nervous, never handled this stuff before, and even managed to get some on my sleeve. That led to a nerve-wracking trip to the bathroom to wash it off.
So anyway, we come to afternoon reg. Sam has retrieved hi s bag and seems none the wiser. I am trying to act casual, and failing – anticipating the moment of discovery by him, the tutor, the teacher – anyone.

So far, so good, as we head to afternoon maths (two blocks and a godly number of steps away) there was already an odd film around the rim of his bag. And it starts to kick off. We enter the classroom before the teacher (only 20 or so of us in this, the lower to middling set)Wanting a front row seat, I go sit by Sam, who is unknowingly about to pull Chaos (hard on the heels of Chance and Opportunity) from his bag to join the party. Pulling his maths books from his bag, he discovers they are covered, no, caked in a thick film of powder ... powder that starts to cloy in the air faster than the revulsion when Westlife are played on loop at a record store. And not just his maths books - showing no academic snobbery I believe priceless Science and History textbooks were also victims to the advance of my dodgy white substance. Understandably, Sam is shocked as he drops the book and yanks out the polythene bag. (Mistake#1) As it spreads he hastily throws it away (Mistake#2) and by this point he is caked in it too. The sight of Sam, all his branded gear and hair products, standing looking down at himself in shock, looking like a dandruff army is marching down his front, will stay with me always. I realise I don't want to be *too* close to the action and have moved away by this point.

Not so Tanya, one of the other of our friends, and Matt (the other boy, if you remember) who were so unfortunate as to catch the momentum of the bag as Sam hurled it away. Indignant, rightly, in thinking that Sam had thrown it *at* them, Tanya picked up the bag and *threw* it back.

By now the powder had finished its ground to hair to bag assault and was making a bad for domination of the entire room via the air and the carpet and curtains. If you ever wondered what a talcum powder fight looked like, I can tell you it's devastating.

Yep, that's right, talcum powder. But this is not just any talcum powder, this is Johnson's extra fine, delicately scented talcum powder, in short, it is the shit, and it spreads faster than the lastest expenses scandal.

As Sam, Tanya and Matt vollied the half-empty bag of finest powdered goodness between them in ever-growing vitriolic venom, an odd feeling of peace and contentment and justice settled over me just like the cloud of dust spreading all over the room - as I was doubling over in laughter. It had gone better than I had imagined.

(The rest is posted in reply for the sake of length, as the story does in a way end here - I'd got what I wanted. But if you wanted to find out the rest click on the reply. I hope this has made the length ok)
(treaclebriggs, Thu 14 May 2009, 21:26, 2 replies)

A friend in need
I know the title is a bit cheesy but it fits the story. Anyway I was that friend in need. Year 5, aged 9 my parents divorced, I didn't take it very well. Due to this I frequently broke down in class, crying over the smallest of things. I also became very quiet and unable to talk in front of groups of people, something I struggle with 10 years later. One case I remember was being asked a simple question, I knew the answer, but couldn't speak. I could only look away, repeating the answer over and over in my head until she moved on.

I was never really bullied, partly, I think, to being so quiet, most people simply ignored me. However I became distant from my group of friends who soon shunned me. I was alone in the playground every break, every lunch.

For the next few months I sat on a bench watching everyone else play. I can't remember how it really happened but a someone who I hardly knew started sitting with me. It wasn't just a case of him also being alone, no, he chose to stop playing with his friends and start talking to me. Over time he introduced me to his friendship group where I became more accepted.

I am still good friends with him, but have never really thanked him for reaching out and helping me, I just dont know how.
(Masterb3ta, Thu 14 May 2009, 20:15, 4 replies)

if i'd been one of the kids at my school,and the bullying type,i would have bullied myself
but that's a bit too abstract.I can see why,even if I'm not quite at ease with it.I was short and stocky and strange,and not in the maths-geek-gifted-pianist-soprano-singer-type prodigy strange,just strange full-stop.Plus I have a strange surname which was and is the bane of both my and my sister's life.
But being teased and (can I use this word?I can't really justify it.) bullied (I said it,but it's not true.It never was true.) made me appraise myself and realise that the bumbling pithecanthropoids out there are infinitely different from me.I am a person and you were and are clockwork toys dressed as people.You made me look at myself and realise that I was different and that's why you bullied (again,really?) me,because there was just one of me and hundreds of you.And the difference wasn't bad or good,it was just different.
So thank you,you bullies,wherever you are (I know where you are.You either work in garages or went to Oxford.)You helped me to realise that 90% of the people who exist are simple animals in t-shirts.And I don't want to be like you and I never will be.So fuck you and your type.But thanks all the same.
(Fuckpig "That's not even a pound a midget.", Thu 14 May 2009, 20:06, 1 reply)

Back at school
I knew I wasn't going to be one of the cool kids. I was (and am) something of a porker, I had a ridiculous slicked-back-4-tonnes-of-gel hairstyle, and a godawful giant leather satchel in green with Jaguar emblazone don it, bought from a charity shop since we were poor. I was crap at sports and average at everything else, but smart enough to know that as soon as I started secondary school (a rather rough all boys school), my best bet for survival would be to quickly pick out and befriend the other down and outers. There was one kid who looked like skeletor who earned the nickname "Flibble", a fat ginger kid, also known as "Ginger fivebellies", a short kid who drank from a young age and acted like a 12 year old Joe Peschi, and a kid whose surname, whilst Dutch, actually translated as "wanker" in German.

Myself and my motley band of friends looked out for each other throughout the 6 years, but nonetheless one particular group of lads did enjoy picking us off in our alone moments, be it through egging, the old deoderant plus lighter near the face trick, stealing calculators/trainers (which were the most valuable things schoolkids had back in my day), and generally being utter cunts.

Despite us all reaching the age of 17 and starting A levels, the bullying continued unabated. Luckily I got off fairly lightly, though I did receive a kicking as a reward for missing an easy catch during cricket once. Ginger fivebellies got the worst of it. At its peak, he'd often be set upon before even making it into school. By this time he'd been able to grow a ginger goatee, and I still remember him doing the whole "I'm a man, I'm not gonna cry" face when he'd come in bleeding from the head or lip.

Anyway, there were 4 lads in this group. The ringleader had bought himself a rather chavvy Fiesta and one night whilst out racing other kids-whose-parents-never-loved-them, he lost control of the car, killed one of the town's most beloved residents (he'd been a tattoo artist in the town for decades), and wrapped it round a tree, killing all but one of the gang.

For the next two years the one that lived sat very quietly in all lessons. I never heard him talk again. I felt really bad for him.
(Tiny Blindfolded Horse Kitten sound car horns would end road rage, Thu 14 May 2009, 19:54, Reply)

I came...
....from a different school system so when I arrived at my new, rather rough, comprehensive I was put up a year within weeks to better be "at my level". (I ain't that bright, just came from a progressive school system).

So here I am, plummy brit accent, love of books and socially inept in quite an aggressive environment where all my peers are older than me.

And I want to say thankyou to the little scrotes that zeroed in on me as a target because they taught me the most useful 2 words in the English langauge.

Disproportionate response.

Sean Connery covered it best in "Untouchables", if they skin a fist, pull a knife, if they bring a knife pull a gun. If they threaten to put you in hospital threaten to put them in the morgue. Never back down, never give an inch and never never never let bullying scum dictate to you for one second.

After a rather.....erm....busy... first week that included several fairly vicious beatings I never had a moment's trouble for the rest of my school career. If you can stand there with blood pouring from your nose and threaten to bite off an ear, well, nine times out of ten they'll leave you alone.

Doesn't work for everyone and probably isn't appropriate to adult life but I do believe that repeated incidences of bullying require someone to choose to be a victim, tho sometimes it's impossibly hard to realise that's what you're doing.
(Pig_of_Doom, Thu 14 May 2009, 19:40, 2 replies)

School Assembly
The School Councillor took the assembly about bullies. She said that "Everybody who puts their hand up who has been bullied, and everybody who leaves their hand down should be ashamed.".

Bit harsh, I thought.
(rhyswynne - on every social network mullarkey known to man, Thu 14 May 2009, 19:28, Reply)

David The Wimp
So for those of you who don't know, my real name is Dave. Back when I was a young 'un though, I was a David. By nature I'm not normally a violent type, to be honest I'm far more likely to be the victim than the bully. But this story does, alas, involve me terrorising the living crap out of one small kid.

Back in primary school my best friend in the whole world was a guy called Martin. Martin was, shall we say, quite an astonishingly bad influence on me. He convinced me it was a good idea to clog all the sinks in the toilets with bogroll and flood the place. On Martin's say-so we tried to pop the water pipe filling up the swimming pool by stabbing it with rose thorns. We tried to set fire to an ants nest with a lighter we found but we could only do one ant at a time.

But this story concerns the new kid. One day at school, a new kid arrived in the year below us. He was incredibly shy and didn't seem to have many friends, and at lunch time he'd sit in the corner of the playground by himself, looking on at the other children with a look that cried "I wish that was me".

This went on for two weeks until one day Martin suggested to me that we should go and talk to him. I agreed and over we went.
Strolling up to the guy, Martin said "Are you playing with anyone?"
The boy shook his head.
"Would you like to play with us? What's your name?"
"David"
"David? That can't be right. HE'S called David" Martin said, and gestured towards me.
"I'm another David"
"Well that's gonna get really confusing, so we'll call you David The Wimp. The game we're playin's called 'monster'. Me and David are the monsters, and you're the Wimp. You've got five seconds before we start chasing you. GO!"
David The Wimp had a brief look of confusion, then horror, then ran off as fast as he could, his little mittens flapping in the breeze as they dangled from their woollen strings attached to his coat. We spent the rest of lunch chasing this poor kid around the playground, making roaring noises and gnashing our teeth. The kid was terrified and it only exacerbated his nickname in Martin's mind.

This story isn't a one-off. We did this every lunchtime for about a month until the poor sod moved schools again. Months later, "today's birthdays" were being read out in assembly as they always were in my school, when the name 'David Williams' was read out among the names. The headmistress quickly corrected herself, saying "oh sorry, he's left now" at which point Martin said (in quite a loud voice)
"Ha ha that was David The Wimp! What a wimp!"

David The Wimp, if you're reading this, I'm really sorry for making the two months at our school quite hellish.
(The Oscillating Gibbon is eating curried squid, Thu 14 May 2009, 19:07, Reply)

Bullying and all that...
I can't really think of a creative way that I used to get back at the bullies I once knew, but, heres my story.

1990s South Yorkshire High School

I was never really the popular one at school. In fact, I was the one that always seemed to attract the punches from the bullies. I wasn't the most intelligent one around, but I knew enough to get by.

There were 4 or 5 lads in my yeargroup that seemingly made it their sole objective in life to make my life hell. Each one finding new ways in which to get at me without drawing the attentions of the teachers.

I seemed to become more and more withdrawn, which, for some reason, didn't make anyone wonder why this was happening. My grades began to suffer, I put on weight, and I had no confidence to do anything.

I tried fighting back. I know I tried fighting back. But, for all the efforts I made in trying to fight back, I just got hit harder. I suppose I could have shouted for help, but, at 14 years old, without anyone I could call a friend for support, I just panicked.

It drove me to the brink. I considered extreme action, starting at overdoses and ending with a rope. I just couldn't bring myself to do it.

All that came to a head about 6 months later.

It was before a German lesson, and one of the lads from my year who wasn't a bully as such, decided he wanted a piece of me.

I saw him coming a mile off. Running at me, arms windmilling like some circus strongman, and then it happened without me even thinking.

I stepped forward, and as he was running straight at me, held my right hand out like a 1960s policeman attempting to stop a pursued car. The bridge of his nose caught the heel of my hand, his glasses cartwheeling one way, his head snapping back, and him ending up flat on his back.

You could almost hear the gasp come from the students, all stood milling about waiting their next lesson.
They all began to circle round, in the typical school fight way. He got the next punch in, then decided to throw caution to the wind, trying to connect with a kick to my face. He missed, and that allowed me to get the upper hand.

I suppose the plus side of putting on weight due to the bullying I was subjected to was that I could use it to my advantage, and I did.
I connected with a left hand to his cheek, rocking his head back.

He swung a wild right hand, that was more danger to the passing flies than me, which was followed by a right hook from me. In all of my 26 years on this earth, I don't think I've ever thrown a harder punch.

I think it was the 2 and a half years of stress all coming to a head, and, speaking to people I know since then, they all said it was a perfect punch. It seemed to come from somewhere far behind me, and my right hand connected just beneath his right eye.

He staggered round, like a Friday night alcoholic walking home after one too many, before crumpling in a heap.

I'd like to say that all the bullying stopped completely after that, but it didn't. It seemed to get slightly worse for a week or two, then, when the lad who'd been subject of my punch got back, all the trouble seemed to gravitate towards him. I wasn't sympathetic towards him, he'd tried throwing his weight around, but had come off worse, and, in the eyes of the bullies, he was fair game.

I've still been subjected to bullying, mainly in the workplace, but fortunately, nothing as bad as the stuff I was subjected to at school.

Bullying? Some say its character building. But it isn't. It takes us back to tribal times, and survival of the fittest, and has no place in our times. Some people weren't as fortunate as me, and couldn't fight back.
(Code of Post lives at the moment in time that is..., Thu 14 May 2009, 18:45, Reply)

This Is Depressing.
Nothing funny I can say, to be honest.

At primary school, I was bullied as a small child because of my 'disability'. I have Reynauds Disease which is nothing serious, but I had to go to and from school in a wheelchair every day when I moved to a new school. So because of this I was isolated. A lot of staff were ignorant of my condition, and therefore were suspicious about it's actual existance.

When I no longer relied on a wheelchair and no longer had to stay indoors at break and lunch times, children accused me of being a liar and used it as an excuse to bully me more. One girl even said that she hoped the plane would crash on my trip to Florida and I would land in the ocean and drown, because I wasn't allowed to learn to swim like everyone else due to my condition.

I had one boy constantly kick my legs whenever I was near him, and this caused a few other boys to copy, meaning I went home every day with bruised legs. Another boy pinned me up against the wall and threatened me regularly, and on the last day at that school he grabbed my ponytail and pulled me backwards off of a bench, pulling me down to the concrete.

I constantly had things thrown at me, suffered verbal abuse which was embarrassing and demeaning. No teacher took notice or did anything about it, and I was too scared to say anything. I didn't have a single friend at primary school. I was about 10 when I started experiencing signs of depression, and didn't want to live.


In secondary school things escalated, because a lot of students from my primary school went to the same secondary school. Each year things became worse. It went from people in my year bullying me, to people in all years bullying me, and I didn't know like 70% of these people.

People constantly called me names, said horribly rude things to me, threw things at me, followed me around laughing, etc. I had people spread strange, completely unfounded rumours about me - such as when one girl in my first year of secondary school went around telling everyone that I was racist and my deepest wish was to "kill all black people." Obviously this didn't exactly boost my popularity.

Frequently girls would tell their friends that I said horrible things about them or did something behind their back, and it would cause them to stomp over to me screaming - I was often pinned into corners of corridors before class by girls screaming abuse in my face and hitting me, demanding to know why I had done what I did - which was absolutely nothing.

In one maths class I had a girl smack me in the face with a shoe, then repeatedly hit me in the face with a ruler and laugh - this was a small classroom with not many students in, and the teacher could see everything. Did he do anything? Not a thing, didn't even tell her to sit down or be quiet. When I reported it to my Head of Year, nothing was done. How could a teacher possibly do anything wrong?

I always refused to do P.E. because it made me extremely uncomfortable. Even though I didn't take part, the teacher still forced me to wait in the changing room whilst people got changed. They, of course, screamed at me, accusing me of staring at them getting changed, demanded to know why I was in there as I always sat there staring at the ground, praying to get out. They had the nerve to report me to the teacher, who then acted as though she didn't force me to wait in there. (I never went in the changing room again after that.)

I was stalked from class to class by large groups of students, surrounding me with abuse. Break and lunch times were the worst because I had nowhere to go. I just had to walk around a lot and hope that no-one saw me, I'd be very lucky if no group of people
followed me around asking crude, embarrassing questions.
The bus trips to and from school were also terrible, especially on the way home. One boy used to sit behind me and wrap his bag strap around my neck, trying to strangle me. He also asked horrible questions, sprayed deodorant directly onto my neck. Another boy put vaseline in my hair and I had to run home to wash it. My wost incident was having a boy from my year sexually harrass me on the bus, I won't go into details.

It would take me all evening to go into more details of everything that happened. Just know that I got crap from people every day of my life for over ten years and nothing was ever done about it. I had no support, not from my family, not from any members of staff.

Not to mention a great deal of it was homophobic bollocks.


I suffered greatly with depression and suicidal thoughts, and when I left school I had terrible anxiety. It has been 4 years since I left school and I still suffer with a social anxiety disorder, but I have been working to make it better, though my anxiety is so severe that I am unable to work (I turn 21 soon.) I have a few friends, can leave the house with much less fear and I am in a great stable relationship of three and a half years to my amazing fiance.

My depression is nowhere near as bad, I have a lot of happy days that feel regular and wonderful. I can sleep at night, I no longer cry every day, nor am I terrified of sleeping because of not wanting to wake up again in the morning.




o_o Yeah. Basically, if you read this and you were the 'bully' type at school, it'd please me to know that you felt just a little bit sad and understood what your actions could have done to someone.

Silly little sob story, but that was school not so long ago.
(Nathan Dorian, Thu 14 May 2009, 18:00, 2 replies)

As a child/teenager
I was a bit of a geek. (excuse the long rant and lack of funnies)

In my defence I had been to a very inbred primary school, where being clever wasn't just cool, it was a status symbol. And I honestly thought school was about learning stuff. I was clever, too. Faults no 1 & 2 right there.

So I went to a very respectable public girls' school, knowing only one other girl there - Fiona R. Within a week she had cronies, and I was the butt of each and every joke.

Altho (thank god) I was never physically hurt - I was humiliated day after day after day.

The local radio station did an "Everybody Hurts" sad story telling each night at 10.30, and I used to cry myself to sleep to it most nights.

When my lovely mum found out about all this, she went to the school and demanded something be done about it. To be told, wait for it...

"It is not the fault of the girls saying these things to your daughter, Mrs Psyche, it is Psyche's fault for not being socially gifted."

I don't know what her response was, but with 2 other kids, and a demanding husband, I guess as long as I was coping, she was too scared to confront the witches at the school. I was put in a different class the following year.

Roll on 2 years - I was still a geek, but had good friends, the three girls (Fiona R, Nicola S and I can't remember the other girl's name) had bullied a different girl each year, and the one they picked on in third year had parents with connections. Put blankly, they said if the school didn't expel the girls involved, they would go to the press. Girls were duly "asked to leave".

That year I scored the top mark in the (pretty damned good) school for my maths SAT, English end of year exam, and just missed a level 8 for my science SAT. None of my grades were below an A.

We went on some sort of field trip and ended up in a big theatre with a load of other schools, and I saw Fiona R in there. She was fat, ugly, and looked like a total chavvy slapper. I imagine her like that even now. And Fiona R, if you're reading this, I now realise it's because you were a jealous, insecure bitch. But that wouldn't stop me spitting in your face if I saw you now.


All I can say is that I'm happy with who I am now, I'm not afraid of being clever, have a great fella, good life, amazing dreams... Don't know how much more I'd ask for.

OH yeah, and being treated like shit DOES help you realise that treating other people well is hugely important. I now tolerate little crap from others, and *hope* that I treat everyone I meet with respect. Maybe I could've learnt that another way, but I know I'll never forget how it feels to be shat on, and more than that, hope I'll never be the shitter.

As bad as it was to be bullied, at least I'll never have the shame of being the bully.
(Psyche finishes work at the end of June! Yay!!!, Thu 14 May 2009, 17:43, 5 replies)

Technically ABH
When I was in the cadets we'd get sent away for a week of the summer holidays to an army camp, to practise carrying heavy logs up and down hills, run around in the mud and so on. We were outside our billet messing around when a lad who was about the same "level" as me - but probably with harder mates - started poking me in the chest over something. I said "Don't poke me," but he did it again, harder this time, so I grabbed his finger and twisted it upwards sharply, snapping the bone at the knuckle. I hadn't meant to do it at all, I just wanted him to stop poking me in the chest, but that's what happened.

A long talk with a superior officer later (including me bursting into tears at the thought of the police getting involved) and everything was sorted out. He was taken to the hospital to have his finger bandaged up (he had it pointing out of a sling for weeks afterwards) and I was given even heavier logs to carry through the mud as a punishment.

And there I thought the story ended, until a few years later he told me how he had taken his revenge. At the time I was very into Ned's Atomic Dustbin (*looks down, realising I'm wearing a Ned's hoodie as I type this*) and I had brought some of my best T-shirts to wear while in the NAAFI. My victim, unable to participate in the muddy fun outside due to his injury, had been confined to the billet all week where for his own amusement he had been using his good hand to wank onto all my T-shirts. I wore them all without realising.
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Thu 14 May 2009, 17:26, Reply)

Children are cruel
But in my experience, teachers can be horrific too, and worse.

Mrs Morley

You fucking short-arsed, acidic old whore.

At junior school, I had this hellspawn as my second year teacher. A sour bitch overall, but she had moments of unrivalled cruelty sprinkled throughout her behaviour. Two moments stand out in my mind. One was when she was berating one of my fellow pupils (a troublesome, freckly fuckwit named Paul) for being a twot, and made to deliver some punishment to the moron with the aid of the blackboard rubber. For those of you who weren't educated in the mid-1980s, these were wooden blocks with fabric 'cords' on one of the flatter sides.

She threw it at his head. I don't remember if she took aim or not, though I doubt it.

Because it hit me in the head.

MOTHERFUCKER! She never apologised to me until my parents contacted the school. And then she was clearly unhappy about it. My parents lodged a complaint and she must've had it in for me from then on but then I might be paranoid.

The other occasion was during PE. I'm nowhere near the epitome of physical health and wasn't as a child - never have been. This is coupled with a fear of heights - even that of a standard Box - a familiar piece of gym equipment, but if you don't know it, Google it. So once class I found myself on this torturous item, shaking as I slowly got to my feet on top of it - thus making the distance to the floor (and my certain death) even greater. Beelzebub then starts calling me all the names under the sun to get me to jump from the Box, making me cry in the process. I mean for fuck's sake, I got called all those names by my peers (though why I should call those bastards peers, I don't know. I am and was certainly better than them, but more on that later) every day as it was, I didn't need it from an authority figure as well. Hateful, hateful waste of blood and bones. I'm starting to well up now recalling this - I'm right back in the school hall, sun shining outside, the sweet pea bush by the door growing out of control. I want to add here that this is all true and I urge anyone who ever bullied or is doing so, consider the affect on the bullied party. The incident I have just relayed happened to me when I was eight years old and for it to make me feel useless and pathetic over two decades later should give you some idea of the repercussions.

For a teacher to sink to the same level of bullying as their charges is unthinkable but as I've shown, possible. What I find scary is I now believe there are worse people out there than Mrs Morley and perhaps I got off relatively lightly. A horrific experience nonetheless.

Mr Glover

Bitter and hairy ginger giant

Mr Glover taught CDT at my senior school and before I even started attending, I'd heard of this person through my older brother. As a side note, both he and his wife (the imaginatively-titled Mrs Glover) taught at the school and she was a sour-faced old hag who never smiled. Though it can't have helped being married to a monstrosity such as Mr Glover. Mr Glover was never out rightly cruel to me, though I can't say I looked forward to his classes. I think this was because I had a tomboy streak in me from an early age which found me helping my father in DIY around the house, indulging my creative side with scraps of wood in the shed and getting the knack for hammers, saws etc, so consequently Mr Glover couldn't really pick holes in my technique. However I remember one time one of the class clowns was acting up as usual so Mr Glover dealt with it thusly:

The room was furnished with rectangular work tables with two vices fixed at either end of each long side. Mr Glover wound open one such vice and asked said clown if he would put his wrist into the open vice, with his back to the table. Mr Glover then wound the vice closed so it pinched the clown's skin but didn't break his arm or leave physical damage. He then repeated this with the vice at the opposite end of the table and forcibly put the clown's other wrist in the open vice and closed it. He then proceeded to shout (think Brian Blessed volume) at the poor sod for what seemed forever but was probably less than five minutes. This was done in front of the entire class. I don't know if complaints were ever lodged, but it made me scared of the bastard, on top of disliking him intensely already.

As someone (probably dead) once said, power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely.

Mrs Morley and Mr Glover were / are two people who I'd not wish on the offspring of my worst enemy. I write '/ are' as I know Mrs Morley is still kicking about at my old junior school. I know this for two reasons. She spotted my poor nephew's surname (the same as mine) in her register and made some hell for him until my brother put a stop to it in no uncertain terms. I understood from that that Mrs Morley had been a bitch to my brother some six years before my year of hell. And about five years ago I attended an open day at the school in the role of aunt of a current pupil and the vision of death appeared by my side (by which time I'd reached my adult height of 5' 8" - apparently a little tall for a woman, but not some lanky Amazon) and tried to be the personification of sweetness and light to which I turned to my right to face her, gave her a splendid death stare (I've been told I can creep people out with a single glare) and stalked off without uttering a word, leaving her doing a decent impression of a suffocating guppy. Of course I've thought up a thousand witty retorts since that moment but I feel I got the message across nicely.

Of course I was subject to the bullying of my fellow pupils throughout infant, junior and senior school and I know I'm not the only one, and it was just about my weight. Yes, I came home from school in tears many times, and now I still have difficulty telling whether people are being genuine or not, I've developed an appalling penchant for swearing (as you may've gathered) and I'm often too sharp when I speak to make new friends easily. During my fourth year at senior school (age fourteen to fifteen) I never spoke to anyone who wasn't a teacher or one of my four close friends. I was fed up with giving people ammunition. This bottling things up attitude led to me thinking it was an ideal way to handle bad situations, to which end I found myself in counselling and on anti-depressants in my early twenties, and I've since learnt it's not ideal!

However, I know other people've had it worse and since the age of sixteen I've tried not to wallow in self-pity and get on with life, brush with depression notwithstanding. To this end, despite appalling academic failure at 6th Form college, that place was one of the best things to happen to me. I had a whole lot of new people to mix with, as well as my close friends from school - our circle of five all went to the same college. I learnt to be me again, the lively and friendly daughter my parents raised me to be. Okay, I'm still shy in large groups and have had jobs where I've been content to work on my own but I now I'm part of a large team, try to make friends carefully and get paid to spend all day chattering on the telephone to faceless customers which is ideal for me. I've got miles and miles of BT cabling to hide behind!
(Sahara Desert http://www.twitter.com/thesaharadesert for swears, Thu 14 May 2009, 17:21, 1 reply)

Bullies. If you can't beat 'em...
...Turn up to school one morning, armed to the teeth, and kill the fuckers.

yours

Eric 'The Columbine Kid' Harris.
(TheManWithThePlan cussed your mum on, Thu 14 May 2009, 17:03, 4 replies)

Being the quiet, bookish kid at school...
bullying would occasionally be attempted.

But being pretty well muscled and having inherited some of my dad's short-fuse temper, it never lasted long and more than a couple of times, ended up in bloody noses for the bully.

I swear that when I was about 5, my dad said, "If someone hits you, hit them back harder" but always swore he didn't. Words to live by though.
(Richy_T hundreds if not thousands of dollars, Thu 14 May 2009, 16:58, Reply)