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This is a question PE Lessons

For some they may have been the highlight of the school week, but all we remember is a never-ending series of punishments involving inappropriate nudity and climbing up ropes until you wet yourself.

Tell us about your PE lessons and the psychotics who taught them.

(, Thu 19 Nov 2009, 17:36)
Pages: Latest, 15, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, ... 1

This question is now closed.

I pretended to be humble, level-headed and likeable
to get out of Drama.
(, Tue 24 Nov 2009, 11:27, 4 replies)
2nd Story - Unlikely sporting success
I wasn't the best at sports, I had a pretty feeble frame despite my calorie intake, even my Mum still remarks to this day that I'm 10 stone wringing wet. Incidentally I wish I was nearer that number now!

As such Rugby just seemed far too violent, even cricket proved a struggle, when you're that slight the weight of the bat and a not particularly firm grip makes you feel like you're gonna break your wrist every time you hit the ball.

I had a secret weapon up my sleeve though, I'd discovered a penchant for table tennis after being forced down to the local leisure centre to try it as a 9 year old. I was pretty good too, my brother and I played in the Kent league and destroyed most of the opposition... I was then plucked from obscurity to be coached by a member of the England set-up who was looking to move into coaching after what is a relatively short and unglamourous career.

So imagine my classmates surprise when the cycle of sporting events came round to Table Tennis, I kept quiet, walked into the hall... produced my own bat that my coach had made for me and proceeded to wipe the floor with everyone in the room, particularly pleasing was the faces of the sporty types as I deliberately played as many forehand top-spins into their body as I could.

The whole ruse was only possible because we had an outside coach come in for those lessons, turned out to be the guy who taught me at the local leisure centre, but at 70 odd he was a bit senile and had no recollection of coaching me as a kid.
(, Tue 24 Nov 2009, 11:16, Reply)
the joys of school rugby
being 6ft 1 and 18 stone of (poorly constructed, mostly out of fat) brick shit house by the age of 14, i was picked for the school rugby team. now this presented an unusual problem, in that i loved rugby and hadnt bothered to wait for the required age of 18 to sign for the local pub team.

see, school rugby here is a non contact sport, touch tackles and no pushing in the scrums, rucks and mauls are sort of a ceremonial thing without any contest. but i learned from the savages, we had 3 prison teams in our pub sunday leage and even an ex pro league player in one of them for grand theft auto (i couldnt stop the cunt, god knows how the coppers tackled him).

well, i wasnt willing to compromise. so i was generally given a red card after 11 minutes of every match (sin binned for 10 within the first, then sent off when i came back on after a smoke or 2). they still kept picking me though the daft sods, i think it was an intimidation tactic than for my playing. ill be the first to admit im shite, but i still love to play.
(, Tue 24 Nov 2009, 11:16, 11 replies)
1st Story - Vest and Pants
When I was at Junior School we had the age old "if you forgot your pe kit you did it in vest and pants" rule, I probably forgot mine twice in 4 years, you soon learn to make sure you've packed it. Essentially it was ALWAYS the boys who forgot cos we're far less organised than women even at an early age let's face it.

After going 4 years with the ONLY girl who ever forgot her kit being the heifer (not a pretty sight) we decided to take matters into our own hands.

We picked the hottest girl in the year (we were all 10 years old at the time so this story isn't remotely pervy, honest!) whose name was Laura. We nicked her PE kit in the morning and hid it, when the afternoon PE lesson came round, sure as eggs is eggs, she couldn't find it. She broke down and cried, defiantly telling the teacher that she had brought it in, but alas the "vest and pants rule" was enforced.

It did take the shine off it slightly that she spent the whole hour long lesson running around the field in floods of tears, but we managed to shut that out for the sake of having a good perv!
(, Tue 24 Nov 2009, 11:09, 4 replies)
I remember turning up to PE without my football boots once. Everyone knows this is a cardinal sin, for which the minimum punishement is 90 lashes with red hot pokers in every orifice. So you can imagine my trepidation as I decide to fess up, and sidle up to the PE office door whilst the changing room is a fever of shinpad donning activity.

“Scuse me sir”. Thank shite, it’s not the head of PE, it’s his less formiddable side kick, but still my heart races.

“Yeah what”.

“Er, I’ve forgotton my boots sir”. Visions of me sliding round a sodden January pitch in my socks enter my head.

“Oh. You’d better do trampolining with the girls then”.

SILENCE. The changing room stops dead and every hormone saturated fifteen year old lad in that room year freezes stock still and I feel their stunned gaze wander from the teacher to me, and then back to the teacher. I don’t think a single football got kicked that day.
(, Tue 24 Nov 2009, 10:23, Reply)
Cross country runs, Jesus.
I actually rather enjoyed rugby, and cricket. Cricket was ace, you could reset the bowling machine, and hit people in the knackers.
But cross country, was bloody horrible. Living near the coast, we had to go on the beach too, sand's far harder to run on. The fat cunt of a game's teacher, and his colleagues used to follow us in their fucking cars, with a packed lunch, flask and pack of 20. They thought we may cheat...
Incidentally, our game's teacher was also our geography teacher. Apparently this is quite common. Any ideas why?
(, Tue 24 Nov 2009, 10:14, 14 replies)
I find it amazing that everyone is viewing missing PE lessons or being delberately crap at it, as some sort of badge of honour. Would you be proudly telling us how you faked being mute to avoid english lit ? Feigned neuromuscular diesease to get out of woodwork?

It seems to me that b3ta is where all the fat kids live.
(, Tue 24 Nov 2009, 10:11, 11 replies)
When I was in year 11 at school I was unlucky enough to break my back - not a bad break thankfully, just a fracture, but obviously I couldn't do PE for quite a long time.

When the final grades were awarded I was expecting to get a U - unclassified, as I couldn't take part.

I got an F. The comment simply said, in scrawled writing, something like "could have tried harder."

(, Tue 24 Nov 2009, 10:11, Reply)
Simple Rule
Nobody who was good at PE has ever done anything worthwhile in later life.

I log on to Friends reunited from time to time just to laugh at the miserable lives of the ex sports gods. Ha ha.
(, Tue 24 Nov 2009, 10:00, 22 replies)
Ah, Inter-House Football
Come Year 9, our House (not in the middle of our street) had been undefeated in football. In Year 7, we went into our final game against the only other unbeaten House and came away with a convincing 7-0 romp. We'd retained our crown in Year 8, so Year 9 was to be a walk in the park we thought.

Now, round about this time of year those Year 9s that had opted to take German as a second language lesson (in lieu of their second weekly lesson on PE) had engaged on an exchange programme, as so many schools make them do. One of the girls in our Year had taken delivery of, as Alan Partridge may have described, "a 14-year-old scorcher". This Fräulein was 14 going on 17, and had the confident air of a girl three years older than her alloted age. It was obvious she put out, what with her mascara-ed eyes, her shock of dyed red hair, her skinny jeans, slim figure and breasts that seemed to say "Hey, look at these...". And I had the (mis)fortune (whichever way you choose to look at it) in seeing her on the school bus every morning and afternoon, as her English exchange girl lived in the same village as me.

As your atypical awkward 14-year-old boy, I was besotted, but would and could never even attempt to express any interest in her. I would see her casual flirting with the older, GCSE boys on the bus, talking loudly in her heavily Teutonically-accented English (women with foreign accents is still an incredible turn-on to me) and singing along to her Walkman (remember them?) Oh, if only I had the confidence some of the other lads did...

So, back to Inter-House football. Our school had recently had the genius stroke of playing House matches over lunch times due to a) the length of the matches (whether rugby or football) being longer than a standard lesson, and b) the fact that other pupils would actually want to watch. Our first game kicked off just before lunch, and a quarter of an hour in, with the game still goalless, our first spectators began to arrive. Including the exchange students.

I espied the object of my temporary teenage crush patrolling the perimeter of the pitch and thought to myself that the only way I could impress her was to play really well and make her think that I was a shit-hot footballer (as opposed to a shit footballer). As I'd been positioned up front in this game, I had the opportunity of getting myself on the scoresheet - perhaps she could see me scoring a wundergoal...?

So it arose; I followed a gorgeously weighted ball over the top and found myself in on goal. The 'keeper had anticipated this ball and had rushed out to meet it. My pace brought me to the ball quicker than he, and I was able to lob the ball over his head and skirt around him. The trajectory of the ball meant that it landed marginally in front of the six-yard box to the left of the goal, so all I had to do was knock the ball into the empty net. As I bore down I saw the German apple of my eye perambulating behind the goal with her fellow exchange friends. She looked round to see me in my moment of glory and our eyes met. I connected with the ball, which caused the net to bulge theatrically, and having taken my eye off what I was doing, proceeded to collide squarely with the goalpost and rebound off with a woody ‘slap’ and land heavily, dazed, and confused on the sodden earth.

Every time she saw me on the bus for the next week-and-a-half, she'd let out a little Hunnish giggle. I've always been suspicious of Germans since...
(, Tue 24 Nov 2009, 9:46, Reply)
'If we played Blow Football, he would suck!'
is how my son's PE teacher summed up the lad's sporting abilities.

Ten years later I still wonder if that was blunt honesty or pure wit.
(, Tue 24 Nov 2009, 8:46, Reply)
I was the best football player in my school,
so I could never work out why the teacher always picked Olaf Ericcsen for captain, and Folke Hammarskjöld for vice captain. I thought he just hated me. Years after I left the school he was arrested. It turned out he was a swedophile.
(, Tue 24 Nov 2009, 4:37, 6 replies)
Mr. R
He was an odd one. The typical T.V. gym teacher; liked all of the jocks, was sexist [probably], and disliked those who didn't listen or do anything [me].

So the two things he disliked about me was that I never changed my cloths and that I never did anything but read books and play invisible frisbee with my two overly awesome friends [There was a lack of frisbees in our school].

He yelled at me, I shrugged it off. Rinse and repeat. This went on for 3 years. And for the last day of gym I decided that I would get him really pissed off.

I usually wear TaeKwonDo pants and a black T-shirt. So, I didn't change in the beginning. Mr. R asked "Checkers! [My last name is Chess so I guess he thought this would be humorous] Did you change?"

"No, I didn't nothing but my white pants and black shirt. And plus, I like how I am anyway." I responded.

So he gave me a 0 and went off gawking at the girls in ridiculously short pants and laughing with the jocks. At the end of gym I went and actually changed into black pants and white t-shirt.
Mr. R came up to me and asked, "Why don't you ever change", not noticing my inverted colors.
I said, "I don't know I just don't have anything but my black pants and white shirt."

He got mad at me and demanded I leave. So I did.
(, Tue 24 Nov 2009, 4:17, 1 reply)
I went to an all boys school where we used to have a games master who taught hockey and weirdly also orienteering. His name was Brian Johnson, so we all called him BJ. He was always a bit strange. I assume he's now left the school as last year he popped up in the Metro. On a mountain. Naked. www.naked-living.com/images/N289-Glen_Ogle_600_.JPG
(, Tue 24 Nov 2009, 1:23, 9 replies)
This one time
(, Mon 23 Nov 2009, 23:27, 6 replies)
the ginger kid with the head too big for his body
whose cock fell out of the leg of his shorts.

never got picked on ever again.

not me, by the way, its cold here, and i'm hung like a cashew :(
(, Mon 23 Nov 2009, 22:30, Reply)
Our cross country runs...
..used to be down to the beach and back.
You could walk this in about 25 mins.

Of course, we'd leg it down to the beach as fast as possible, and then spend a fun hour or so cliffjumping ('tombstoning' as da kidz say these days), swimming, and generally having beach based fun.

Then we'd stagger back to the school, soaking wet and sunburnt.

I think the teacher knew full well what we were doing, but we probably burnt off more energy and got far more exercise than we would have from a run...

Who says PE teachers are thick?
(, Mon 23 Nov 2009, 22:13, 1 reply)
I never set the field alight during games at school. I had a very slight frame (still do) and was always low on confidence, so I tended to shy away from the more competitive and physical side of things. Amongst my friends I was normally one of the best at footy and tennis, but put me up against the 'bigger boys' and I would inevitably shrink in to the background. Ah, glorious anonimity. When it came to picking teams I was among the group left before the fatties and asthmatics. I was once made captain of our form football team in the interform footy cup when I was 12. I hated it and we were a dismal failure; I had not a clue. Why my teacher picked me to do it I just don't know, but it was a real low point.

Anyhoo it was the summer term and I was about 15 and thanks to Stu and his newly acquired softball bat, we had been playing softball since March of that year and I was pretty good at it. Lo and behold, our PE teachers decided that for one week double games would be taken up with softball and we were off. Teams were picked and I was predictably left pretty near the end before finally getting the finger of disdain.

We were batting first and all the meatheads queued up to have their go, but they were standing astride the base and despite my repeated suggestions to move to the side to swing above the plate, their frustrated travails resulted in a few strike outs and a couple of guys on a few bases. It was my turn and considering there were only two of the lower eschelon behind me, our team was already being written off by our own failed meatheads.

Then the final insult happened; the outfield drew in, expecting me to, at best, dolly the ball up. Easy. Usually in school I let the situation get the better of me, but not this time. Before Mr Holt could say in his patronising style 'mersault, try standing to the side of the cone' I was there and with the nasty petty sledging still ringing in my ears I twatted that ball and it flew. Took the fuckers ages to get it back. I cantered around for a home run and then looked at my teammates and shouted 'fuckyouthatshowyoudoityoutwats'

I think Mr Holt liked that one...

All true. For a couple of hours I ruled.
(, Mon 23 Nov 2009, 22:10, 1 reply)
It's the winning that counts
I was never any good at team games, what with my misanthropy peaking earlier than my coordination skills but my spindly frame and experience escaping beatings made me a natural at middle distance running.

My hard work coupled with the lack of competition meant that I became the top 1500 metre runner in the school and was chosen to represent the school at the interschools tournament. This was a big deal for me as I'm about as successful at sports as Stephen Hawking is at limbo dancing.
That week my dreans were filled with visions of being lifted off the podium in celebration and Hayley Price finally noticing what a stud I'd become and inviting me to feel the tissues stuffed in her bra.

On race day I was feeling quite good, non of the nerves or jelly legs I'd expected I even managed a cheeky wave to Hayley at the starting line. Things started well I was tucked into 3rd place, keeping up with the main group while as usual some idiot had sprinted off at full speed to get first for a while.
The second lap was the same and I started to get a good feeling, all I had to do was hold on while the guy at the front tired and then make a break for it.
Then it went wrong, at the start of the third the group started to jump forward and I was passed, dropping to 4th then 5th and finally managing to hold onto 6th. There was no way I was going to win this and I wouldn't be able to live with the shame, what I needed was a miracle.

I made up my mind and was rewarded with a rush of adrenaline. Coming to the home strait I gave it everything, running like the wind from Zephyrus's lactose intolerant arse. Then when I heard the bell for the last lap and in full view of the crowd and Hayley's chartaceously enhanced bosoms, I took a dive.

I dropped to the floor and grabbed my calf and writhed in mock agony as I'd seen Italian footballers do. I looked around but everybody still seemed to be watching the game. It was only after the race had finished and I had failed to cross the line that someone came over to help me to the first aid tent.
An Oscar winning performance later I walked out with an ice pack loudly muttering how I was "just getting into my stride" and "shouldn't have pushed myself so early". Cue lots of sympathy and a week off PE to recover. I decided to end my running career soon after.

Ashamed, yes. Beaten, technically no.
(, Mon 23 Nov 2009, 21:55, 2 replies)
Ballroom Dance
In a misguided effort to civilize our class of young barbarians our school devoted a few weeks each year to ballroom dance. The girl's PE instructor, a hard-faced woman who wore her hair in a tight bun pierced by two chopsticks, attempted to teach us the waltz, foxtrot and cha-cha during an era dominated by the twist, watusi and frug (it was the '60s). She also attempted to make sure the boys' hands stayed above the girls' waists. Successfully as it happened. Even the potential wrath of that woman was terrifying.
(, Mon 23 Nov 2009, 21:29, 1 reply)
Me and my sister got rugby and cricket banned from our school.
My sister twatted a swat under the chin with a cricket bat, when he got a bit close whilst fielding at silly point.

I went for a cheeky fart in the scrum whilst playing tight head, and "accidentally" followed through.

Oh, the horror!!
(, Mon 23 Nov 2009, 20:53, 1 reply)
A lazy man created humour, once. By accident.
At my first secondary school, PE was much as everyone on here seems to have found it. An aggressive, moustachioed man would shout at us and make us stand in our underwear, whilst displaying a spare pair. I once popped my balls out during rugby, accidentally, due to this.

Anyway... at my next school, a selective and very academic school we moved to at 14 if selected, PE didn't really exist. We had a very lazy, but nice, old man, not a nonce, who would lazily cover lessons in the morning as he recovered from his nightly consumption of ale, by reading a trashy, shiny covered man novel about racist soldiers killing africans etc.

One afternoon, a girl had joined us for the lazy, geek ridden kickabout that passed as PE. She was much better than most of the lads, who were useless...

None of us took the game seriously. For some reason we were shouting 'jugs' and 'go for the jugular' a lot. endlessly.

He got fed up.

He asked us not to milk the joke.

We had to stop playing.
(, Mon 23 Nov 2009, 19:39, Reply)
Learn to swim - or don't
For many years, I was *always* sick on Swimming Day. Physically, vomitously sick. Or I'd forget my kit (for a while) - or some other excuse. My parents could never understand why.

I went to school in South Africa. We had a swimming teacher called Mr. Anderson. He firmly believed that everybody can swim, and that we only need to "be reminded how". His method of teaching me to swim was to - and I'm not making this up - pick me up and throw me into the deep end. If I somehow made it to the edge, he would stamp on my fingers with his hard, hard shoes.

I don't float.

I nearly drowned so many times - and was only saved by my school mates. I gave up "forgetting my kit" because Mr. Anderson didn't give a shit. No swimming trunks? Swim nude then, maggot!

To this day (I'm 40) I still don't float, to the bemusement of Mrs. Lustfish. I do now swim, and enjoy it, but it took until I was in my late teens.

Fuck Mr. Anderson. In the arse. With a big rubber dick.
(, Mon 23 Nov 2009, 19:25, 10 replies)
True suffering
I switched schools halfway through secondary school from a crap school to a slightly less crap school.

In crap school, boys winter sports were football and extreme ice snowballing (only one of which was officially sanctioned). The rules to both are pretty simple, even for someone like myself with *zero* interest in taking part in outdoor sports.

In slightly less crap school, boys winter sports were rugby and more rugby. The rules of rugby are, as far as I can discern, made up on the spot. Even if they are actually written down somewhere, having joined halfway through the voyage of discovery of rugby most of my fellow boys were embarked on, I didn't have the first clue what they might be.

So on my first trip to the rugby pitch (which was frozen harder than concrete), in the snow and wind and so on, I wasn't very good. I did a few things wrong, which had names I didn't understand, like "knock on" and "offside" and "what the fuck?!". Not being a very big chap I also suffered somewhat in the not-getting-the-shit-kicked-out-of-me sub-game that seems to be an integral part of rugby.

Anyway, my PE teacher eventually flipped, had a five minute rant at me for being a stupid, pathetic boy. As his punishment he sent me to play volleyball in the warm sports hall with a bunch of fresh, pink, bouncy 14/15-year-old girls in gym-skirts. This ultimate humiliation, he explained, would teach me what being a man was all about. In that he wasn't wrong, though probably not quite in the ways he intended. I would, he foamed, never play rugby on his pitch again, and would for the rest of my days be banished during the winter months to the warm sports hall, with those damned girls in those damned gym skirts and bouncy bits. Bouncy, bouncy.

I still don't understand the rules of rugby. Volleyball on the other hand I still have a bit of a hard-spot for. Thanks Mr Pugh :)
(, Mon 23 Nov 2009, 19:02, Reply)
I don't like cricket.
Oh no.

I never wanted to play cricket at school; it was overwhelmingly tedious and really quite dangerous when you take into account just how hard and bouncy the balls are. So during the summer term I'd take myself off to play alongside my friends in The Mong Leagues (as detailed here).

What we played was barely recognisable as cricket and should really have been given a name all of its own: Mong Cricket. We would be given the very same equipment as found in standard cricket and the same rules were vaguely applied, but it always proved to be quite a different sport, due entirely to the participants' general mongitude. There was, however, one memorable game that ensured The Mong Leaguers would never get their useless, malcoordinated hands on a proper cricket ball ever again, and the world instantly became a safer place for it...

We were several days into a tight and seemingly endless bout of Mong Cricket when The Ball Chucker lined up at the appropriate end and prepared himself for an almighty underarm fling toward the expectant Ball Hitter, who stood nervously before the sticks at the other end of the Grassy Strip. The Redundant Ball Hitter loitered foolishly near his own sticks and, probably lost in thoughts of how he’ll never shed his seemingly inescapable addiction to virginity, failed to notice both the lumbering waddle and spinning arm of the Ball Chucker as he took an almighty "run up” in the hope of delivering a throw with more potency than that typically displayed by a 5 year old; something of a challenge for those among the ranks of The Mong Leagues.

Not paying sufficient attention to the mazy waddle of the ever quicker Ball Chucker proved to be a mistake of face-swelling proportions for our Redundant Ball Hitter, and it was only as a sizeable bulk began to blot out the otherwise sweltering sunshine that his soon-to-be-agonising error became all to apparent. Fleeter of wit than of foot he realised a need for action and sensed his only option was to duck down behind the sticks he'd foolishly been loitering around.

This wasn't a good idea.

The Ball Chucker had his sights set only on one thing: flinging a killer Throw towards the face of the still nervously waiting Ball Hitter in the vain hope that an injury might finally put an end to this eye-gougingly tedious game. He was right - his run and spinning arm combination proved to be a winner, and with a stroke of shockingly precise timing he released the Red Sphere of Death at the optimum moment to send it hurtling straight into the face of the Redundant Ball Hitter.

The gathered nerds winced simultaneously as ball met face and our hapless hero plummeted groundwards with a limpness usually reserved for the very recently dead. Almost as soon as the ball had trickled lumpily away from his head did a swelling appear of almost the exact size and colour of the missile that was its cause, and somewhere in the foreground a child fainted.

No more Mong Cricket that day. A draw was announced to unanimous ambivalence and the crowd swiftly dispersed with more speed than had been witnessed throughout the entire match.
(, Mon 23 Nov 2009, 18:56, 1 reply)
Physical Education GCSE Paper 1 - Multiple Choice
Question 1
It’s Monday morning and first period is Rugby. During morning tutor period the class arsehole scrawls out a fake sick-note from his mum on A4 lined paper. You sneer at his piss poor effort but the spawny bastard only goes and gets away with it. Do you:
a) Grass the little shit up.
b) Jog out onto the rugby pitch without a care because you’re a well-rounded likeable chap who loves team sports.
c) Wait 20 years and then piss and moan about it on the Internet.

Question 2
It’s the rugby house matches and once again you have been picked for the scrum front row. Is this because:
a) Everyone hates you
b) You are a fit young man with above average strength and physique.
c) It’s the rugby equivalent of sticking the useless kid in goal.

Question 3
The rugby lesson has finished and as per usual the shaven monkey who ‘taught’ the ‘lesson’ has allowed for a total of 3 minutes at the end to have a shower, get changed and make it to your next lesson. The fat bitch that teaches you German is going to have a pop at you if you are late again. Do you:
a) Stick your head under a tap to give the illusion of showering but then get grassed up by everyone and have the humiliation of being forced back into the shower.
b) Shower and get changed and STILL make it to your next lesson on time because your time management skills are second to none.
c) Run back to the changing rooms in a vain attempt to beat the horde, have the briefest of showers before the nonce of a PE teacher notices you barely touched the water and forces you back in to do a better job. You turn up for the next lesson hot and flustered and 10 minutes late. The fat bitch berates you again, just like she did last week, just like she will next week.

Question 4
You are feeling ill in the morning before you go to school. You ask your mum for a note excusing you from PE that day. What happens?
a) Mummy writes you a note; just like the one she writes for you every sodding week. Or she doesn’t and you scrawl one out on A4 paper.
b) You get a note but you take your games kit anyway just in case you feel better, which you do and joyfully participate in PE that day.
c) HA HA! You could be bleeding from your eyes and she would still send you off to school with your PE kit. What doesn’t kill you only makes you resentful.

Question 5
You have been chosen as a team captain for the duration of the PE lesson. What is the correct procedure for picking teammates?
a) I have a sick-note, I’ll keep score.
b) Best players first, then friends, then the “less able”.
c) Trick question, you were never chosen to be team captain.

Question 6
A fat kid is having his bare back slapped by a jeering mob in the changing room, do you:
a) Get some good slaps in before the games teacher half-heartedly breaks it up.
b) Break it up yourself and then choose the fat kid for your team, thus boosting his self-confidence.
c) Thank god it’s not you.

Question 7
A young attractive female PE teacher has joined the staff. Do you:
a) Use a compass to carve “Miss Williams is a dirty slag” into every possible desk.
b) Respect her as you would any member of teaching staff.
c) Nod in agreement at the sexually graphic opinions of your peers and what they would like to do with the new PE teacher, even though you’re not quite sure what any of it means.

Question 8
You have been given a choice of PE activities for the next term, what do you choose?
a) It doesn’t matter because your mum has written a sick-note….on A4 lined paper.
b) Rugby without a doubt. It’s character building and good exercise.
c) The Trampoline, because it’s inside, easy and you get to see the girls wobbly bits wobble.

Question 9
It’s Sports day! Where are you?:
a) Sniffing glue behind the bike sheds
b) Leading your house to victory
c) Hiding in the computer room

Question 10
10 years have passed since leaving school and your boss asks if you are interested in joining the firms 5 a side football team. What is your response?
a) Trick question, you’re dole scum or in prison.
b) Of course, sign me up!
c) You mumble something non-committal and hope you never get asked again.

How did you do?
Mostly (a's) – Oh dear, you’re an absolute disgrace to the glorious subject of PE, you have weaselled your way out of every bit of exercise. Take your GCSE A* and get out.

Mostly (b's) – You are a true sporting champion and a leader of men. You have earned your GCSE A* and you are well on your way to studying Sports Science at the PolyUniversity of Basingstoke.

Mostly (c's) - You are me…GET OUT OF MY HEAD!
(, Mon 23 Nov 2009, 18:44, 6 replies)
Small nipples
Today after Sports we were in the changing rooms having a bit of banter. I took my top off to have a shower when another boy shouted "Look how small his nipples are!", next thing I know the whole changing room is laughing at me and I am being whipped with towels, even our teacher came in to see what the commotion was about and I saw him smirking at my nipples. So my question is, why are small nipples such a problem and how can I make them bigger?
(, Mon 23 Nov 2009, 18:27, 6 replies)
My PE days were immensely crap.
Seven years old i developed a severe ear infection that nearly rendered me deaf, so after a throat and ear operation (little tubes things in my ears called 'grommits'), i was told to avoid sports for a good few months and to totally avoid swimming until i had my 'grommits' removed.

So by the time i was eight years old, i couldn't swim, didn't understand the rules to most sports and was the dejected kid that used to sit at the pool-side and watch everyone splash about or hit things with rackets.

After having the buggers removed, i was ecstatic, i could finally join the other kids and splash about.

Just as swimming lessons were cancelled!

So... I decided to join a football team and was always placed in goal, because 'i had the longest arms', but never did much except stand on cold fields shivering in goal.

Then as the years past, i was forced to play rugby and as i was the skinniest, lankiest, long haired kid there - i got crushed, tripped, elbowed, punched and even carried with the ball, to be flung to the ground winded and bruised.

It was during one game of rugby that i suffered TWO seperate afflictions, a damaged tendon just below my left kneecap, which inflammed it causing it to basically inflate and battered my nerves. It looked like i had a seperate knee and was absolute agony for months. AND just to top off the injury, i got studded on my shin with dog-shit encrusted steel studs, which caused me to fall abysmally ill.

So rugby and football were no-no's.

I didn't give up though, i tried basketball a few months later and burst my nose when i ran into somebody on the court. My PE teachers eventually felt sorry for me and just left me to do what i wanted.
So whilst everyone was running around cold pitches and freezing, i was drawing and reading next to the hot water pipes in the changing rooms, finally not worrying about sports. Happy in my own nerdish world.

That was until our head Pe teacher was replaced by a strange grey haired man, who always wore a grey t-shirt, grey shorts and grey trainers. I can't remember his name for the life of me, but he was a sports-lunatic of the highest order.
I was forced into again. My doctors note was disregarded as 'an excuse' and i was given an ultimatum 'cross country' , 'weights' or 'rugby'.

I became good at running, but got mildly disillusioned/amused when our cross country team kept cheating by jumping over peoples back gardens and fences. When it came to the local tournaments, we just weren't ready for any kind of competition as we'd spent most of our time smoking.The cross country team mostly consisted of petty criminals.

So it got cancelled.

I finally ended up 'refereeing' rugby as the kind of 2nd decision guy who stands at the sides. Even to this day i had no idea what the grey haired ref was saying to me, 'What do you reckon half-offside or is it full-halfback knock on with a centreyard tackle?'

I'd just say the first one and hope i wouldn't get heckled by one team or the other, for not having a clue as to what i had missed?

Pe was shit.

Length - On a lighter note i taught myself how to fucking swim in a week!

I have since given up sports of all kinds.
(, Mon 23 Nov 2009, 18:26, Reply)
Now this is not really an answer but a thought.
When I was at school there were two sets of people. The people who could programme in BASIC and the people who did sports. (yes there were some others but lets not muddy the waters eh.) Although Mr Bin and I didn't know each other then we fell into the former group.

Now travel on 20 years to today.
There is a chap I work with who is one of the sporty types. His computer didn't work so Mr Bin fixed it.
So the sporty people need us now, they need us nerds as the world relies on computers. All those years spent in the IT room with the BBC computers was needed.

So why are they still considered better? When ever a computer gives up the ghost a nerd gets called in? What good are the sporty types unless they are in the army?

Oh I need something utterly arbitrary and pointless needs winning, I know, I'll give the bloke who's good at kicking a ball around a shout.
This doesn't happen.

Oh my computer won't connect to the internet and I can't find out in my beloved Arsenel Town have won. I'd better get the bloke who fixes the printers and can't see the point in the five aside team.

So if someone is crap at PE they should be given extra computer lessons for the geek shall inherit the Earth.
(, Mon 23 Nov 2009, 17:56, Reply)
What if it had been a knife?
As in most schools PE at my seat of learning was strictly gender segregated with us gazing across at the girls playing hockey from the rugby pitch. Keeping my glasses on for a better view I discovered was not the best idea in the scrum. The exception to this rule was during the summer term in the 4th/5th year when the sexes combined with the majority playing rounders and a few each week playing tennis. My week for tennis and I my partner in mixed doubles is a very competitive girl (LB) from my class who is also a member of the tennis club. I am not a very competant player and couldn't care if I win or lose although cos I fancied her (she's female and breathing) I was trying my best. Everything I did LB complained about and in the end I snapped and hurled a tennis ball in her direction. Throwing accuracy or power has never been great but that ball hit her in the ribs. She screamed. Teacher came over and the "duty teacher" (Deputy head or headmaster) was summoned to take me away. I was not allowed to explain about the provocation that had led to the incident and was given the "what if it had been a knife in your hand" talk. It was only later that I realised that I had thrown a ball with my left hand out of frustration in her general direction which by some misfortune managed to hit LB when if I had wanted to do some damage I was holding the racket in my right (dominant) hand. I had a week of detentions which weren't too great a hardship as I was still able to catch the same bus home and I had to write a letter of apology to LB.
(, Mon 23 Nov 2009, 17:30, Reply)

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