Back in the day
when I was but a wee nipper, and multi-ethnocentric New Labour thinking had not infiltrated that innocent and time honoured tradition that is known as the primary school nativity play, my class was rehearsing 'Hark the Herald Angels'. The teacher was struggling to keep the troops in order as our pre-pubescant 'singing' voices screeched their way through the blasted carol for what seemed like the fiftieth fucking time.

The excitement of holiday and Santa visiting soon had caused us all to lose our patience long ago, and kids were shouting, squealing and generally being a nuisance, jumping around with their hands up time and time again to enquire about far more interesting topics, such as when we would finally be allowed to watch the end of term film. Or better still, when we could stop repeating this bastard carol. With all of this excitement, I needed a wee.

The teacher, who I shall call Mrs A (for I cannot remember her name), was shouting

'Quiet! QUUUUUIIIIIEEEEEET!!!!!!!'

to calm us down. This had little effect. After a couple of minutes glaring angrily at the 70 or so year 4s before her, she snapped, hollering at an ear splitting volume,

'IF YOU DON'T ALL SHUT UP AND PUT YOUR HANDS DOWN NOW, THERE WILL BE NO FILM, AND THERE WILL BE NO HOME TIME. YOUR PARENTS WILL BE TOLD TO COLLECT YOU AT 5PM!!!'

This grabbed everyone's attention. Quiet descended upon the hall.

'Thank you', exclaimed Mrs A in a somewhat relieved tone.

By this stage, I was dying for a wee. My young bladder was close to bursting point. And I was too afraid to be the one to break the hard earned quiet, let alone speak up in front of everyone to ask if I could go for a wee (remember the days when you had to ask permission to have a slash?). Willy burning now and a feverish cold sweat was breaking on my brow. In hindsight I should have legged it and explained later, but Mrs A was cross and obviously anyone who put their hand up would miss the Muppets and have to stay late.

In a panicked state by now, I could hold it no longer. Using damage limitation techniques I pressed my hands as hard as I could into my groin, hoping to reduce the pain. It didn't work. Piss came gushing from my tiny todger at a rate that would have has Red Rum impressed. The pressure from my bladder forced it through my hessian sack onto the palm of my hands, which duly deflected the torrent into two high velocity sprays, one to the left, one to the right. All over the unfortunate souls who stood there. THE SHAME!!!

I cried. I really cried. So I ran from the hall. Mrs A shouted. I ran all the way to my mum (who, praise the lord, was the library assistant). Good ole' mum drove me straight home for a change of trousers and the rest of the day off. When I returned (about 3 days later because of the embarrassment) I recieved a very friendly lesson in life from Mrs A that there were certain circumstances when it was OK to speak when told not to and that she would say no more about it.

Didn't stop me having to live with the ridicule for the following 5 years or so did it you old fucking bitch!

Length? About 3 feet in either direction.
(Sir General ***WoW***, Sat 28 Mar 2009, 20:22, Reply)