Day 1
I was bullied by everyone at school, including the girls and the teachers. It didn't help that my elder brothers had bounced around one or two teachers a bit in their time, and being reasonable human beings, they wanted revenge. I was a swat and so meek, it was going to be easy.

On my first day, Vincent Secondary Modern in Northolt, the new kids were all coraled in the cloak room. 150 shit scared 11+ failures waiting to be allocated classes. Calling out the names was a neanderthal, a typical Loughborgh reject named West. Coming to my name quite near the top, he stops, frowns, and looks up. In a moment he had swung through the bars of the coat racks and landed in front of me. "Stand Up" he yells, I oblige. "Not another one?" "Yes" He turns purple and swings back to his place. All eyes on me, I trembled like a leaf and hoped to disapear. Even the kids, whose mums had made them wear school caps, marked my card on that day.

I mentioned this to my big brother when I got home. "Oh yeah, I stuck one on him the day I left, the cunt" Cheers Bro, my life is now going to be destroyed.

I try to avoid West for as long as possible, he was the games master, and I was crap at all sport, so it was very difficult. One rainy thursday, three classes of boys are sitting silently in the dungeons that served for changing rooms under the Gym. In a few minutes we will be marching down to the local swimming baths. All silent except for Les Clarke and me. West is in his office, learning to read or something. he hears the noise.

Out bounds West from is nest of sweaty track suits, unclaimed sports kit, and pants. Its slipper time for Les and me. Him first. Standard procedure, bend over, and grab your knees. One wack, and Les is sent back to his seat. Me next.

Assume the position, I notice he is moving to the end of the room. One two three, he launches himself at me, and my fat arse takes his size 9 like a thunderclap. The sound reverberates around the changing room. I spring to my feet and turn to face him. "I didn't tell you to stand up," he shrieks. I re-assume the position, and boy are my eyes welling up, cos it fucking hurt.

Another run up, and he dummies it. Then he dismisses me. I give him a look that I thought was menacing, but probably looked like private Godfrey offering a pice of fairy cake.

At the swimming baths, "Oi Bartleby, I can read Slazenger on your arse, and size 9." The shame, the shame.

The bad thing was that once he had slippered you, you were one of his mates. Definatley suspect.

In closing, Mr West, Philip I think, you are a grade A cunt. I hope your kids had very small dicks. And that includes the girls.

Oh, am I bitter. Oh yes.
( Bartleby A dead man on vacation, Thu 14 May 2009, 14:29, 2 replies)

Bullshit
Patrick Moore was the Gamesmaster.

*more* internet lies....
( Monty Boyce, My cheese game is strong, Thu 14 May 2009, 15:40, closed)

Agreed
I meant Sports bastard.
( Bartleby A dead man on vacation, Thu 14 May 2009, 16:13, closed)