Hmphhh
I know this isn't the place to vent, and all, but even though everyone probably has stories about PE teachers, I struggle to see how this can possibly be the best possible QOTW available.

This may be because I've read the QOTW Suggestions, which are far better than this.

Foreigners, for example, which has been suggested a few times, is an absolute fucking goldmine.

(for the record though, my mum is a PE teacher so I will have stories).

Bah.
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 0:54, 4 replies)

Girls Rugby
In one PE lesson back when i was at school they decided to teach us to play rugby. Well i say play rugby, really they were just teaching us to tackle each other. The teacher put us all in pairs and when she came to the last two people it was me and another girl. Now im pretty much a twiglet, tall and skinny with not much too me. Been that way since i was 13. The girl i was paired with on the other hand, was a rather bonny girl who happened to be on a girls rugby team.

All i can say is she wasn't the one who was lay crumpled in a heap on the ground for 10 minutes afterwards.
(stitched, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 0:22, Reply)

Bablake, Coventry
In the 80s. Mrs Thomas, Mrs Friebe.. bitches of the highest order... PERVY bitches of the highest order. They really seemed to get off on pushing vulnerable young girls of ten into enforced nudity, exposing every private matter for all to see. Each week was a humiliating ritual of either stripping naked in front of them and being scrutinized by their lezzer-fro-framed stares, or having to loudly announce you were **MESTRUATING MISS!"** and were thus graciously allowed to wear a vest and pants as you were spared the showers in favor of a wash.
They did other stuff which was quite possibly child abuse.
Apologies for lack of funnies
(LittleWhiteTreat, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 0:19, 4 replies)

Breaking the gym floor!
I was a lazy shit, still am really but slightly healthier. Anyway i chose trampolining as a sport because it just involved bouncing for a bit.

So one day using the trampettes(the mini trampoline things) everyone would run, jump, do something, land. Simple really. Well i got creative. Took out the second trampette and instead of running and jumping length ways onto the crash mats i decided to try a handstand width ways.

So i run, i jump, i do a handstand. Then my feet continue going really damn fast then bang. My feet break through the wooden floorboard. I didnt know what happened, well until my friends came over and started asking what the fuck i did. My feet were fine, bar numb, the floor was fully broken.

I walked out fine, until about 2 minutes later when the agonising pain set in. Overall i think it was a life changing accident. Hurt like hell and it even became a rumour. Too bad the school is now a council building, i wanted to steal that floorboard
(DeniedGuilt_AcceptedCake is fighting the urge to punch turtles, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 0:17, Reply)

Some kids are just wet! Teacher talking.
I was called out to the PE field as most senior First Aider from my very important cup of coffee to the aid of a year eight boy who had had a very nasty accident during football. He had been tackled and he had gone down hard and was in floods of tears. He was convinced that he was paralysed. The thick little bastard was a wimp and had a minor graze on his knee. The kid was a notorious wet blanket and how he coped away from his Mum I will never know.

Two days later I was asked to take another lad to hospital with a suspected sprained wrist. He said it hurt a bit, but he was all right otherwise. The X-Ray showed that he had snapped off the end of his elbow! He was the same age as the first kid, but he did not want to make a fuss in case his Dad told him off for making excuses.

I will never forget that kid, I told his Dad how much of a legend he was and his Dad was really proud of him. He still teased him that he was making excuses and should be in school as his arm was set.

I really dislike wet kids that grizzle and moan about nothing. Working in a school you see a lot of them and frankly I am glad that PE teachers make them run around the pitch. As teaching staff you can run a book on which kids will wimp out or die of heart disease age thirty! It is/was only a bit of sport to get most of the little bastards off of their lazy fat arses and out into the sunshine occasionally...

A little bit of pain never hurt anyone!
( Rev. Jayneflakes Buy my book, I need the cash for drugs and hookers, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 0:05, 8 replies)

This is not an embarrassing story...
It's not long either. But it is a story that about P.E. that I can recall with fondness...which is an oddity!

Basically, I sucked at P.E., and was happy to find myself in the last EVER lesson I would be forced to endure!

Non-stop cricket was chosen to be played, and I was, as usual, dreading displaying my ineptitude for physical activity.

But, no! When it my go to bat, I actually hit that sodding ball! Excited, I ran to a stop, and back to my starting position, ready to hit again, only to find that they were still chasing the ball!

When the pitcher got the ball, he threw it, I hit it, and ran again! When I returned, the same thing had happened! Joy upon joy, I was surviving longer than most of the card-carrying sport enthusiasts had!

While not an actual sporting achievement, it did feel good to stick a metaphorical two-fingers up to the bastards who had laughed at my inability to catch, throw, bat, etc.!

P.S. I still have no idea why my brain decided to suddenly be useful in P.E. in the LAST lesson which was, for all intents and purposes, a complete fecking waste! I could have done with that during the five years that preceded the event...
(CallMeNumberTwo had his 'last' cigarette on, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 0:04, Reply)

Ahhhh PE
A short story and a long story this week whilst I can remember such things. Other posts may be forthcoming.

Story number 1: One of my PE teachers, Mrs Walker, happened to also be my mate Rob's mum. Name is not changed as I doubt he reads B3ta, given that last time I saw him, he had muscles bigger than my head, and bigger than his head too, so he's unlikely to read this (and if he does, Hi Rob ya big ginger!). As a result of this blessing and curse, I was the only one in the class whose name she knew and so, was usually placed in a position of responsibility, and also the only one she would ask questions to, despite the fact that I was A) daydreaming, B) crap at most sports and C) often off my head on drink or glue (I was 14 and in a dark and troubled place, what can I say?). Thankfully she was only a temporary teacher to replace our last one until he recovered from his operation and I could sink back into anonymity.

Story number 2 (the long one):

After the above story, our regular teacher, Mr Short (both in name and in stature, which was kinda amusing), decided that we were going to split into two groups and either do badminton or football. Given that my footballing skills at this point were about on par with Stephen Hawking, if not slightly worse than his, I opted to do badminton. And this is where I found the first sport that I'm actually good at.

Given that I was a scrawny bastard at this time (think Christian Bale ala Machinist, now apply that to a 14/15 year old), and wore glasses, everyone assumed that they would find it easy to beat me in badminton as I apparently had no muscles and thus, nothing to power my shots with. Plus I was one of the four guys in a class full of girls, so there was always an atmosphere of sexual tension present in the lessons as I was at that awkward teenage age of wanting to fuck anything.

First lesson, and I'm playing against my mate, J, (name altered because he may read this), who is quite possibly the most unsubtle bastard when it comes to badminton. He tends to blast any shot, and falls into predictable routines, so I find it easy to win. Which is a shock, as I never win anything sports-related. I play one of the other blokes, and win again, double shock. Two wins on the trot is something that I can only dream of. I'm told to go play one of the hottest girls in my class, who also happens to be one of the sportiest. Despite getting a hard-on as I watch her pert jubblies bounce around in that tight white PE t-shirt she wore, I manage to win the game, but it was a close thing.

Three wins in a row, and I'm amazed. Despite having never had any formal training, and only a brief soiree involving tennis, I am actually one of the best in the class. Never mind the fact that it was a girly sport, it was a sport I was good at. As the year progresses, I opt for staying on and doing badminton, and remain one of the best in the class. Eventually, this gets to the point where me and a few mates ask Mr Short if we can run the after-school badminton club as well as helping out during the lessons, to which he agrees.

So I now have responsibility for an after-school club, of the one sport (at the time) I was good at. We used to have a laugh, offering both serious games, the piss-around/fun challenge area (such as playing a game whilst sitting down, or playing a game on one leg, etc), and a general break area for those who weren't as fit as we were and needed to cool down.

During one of my numerous overseeings of games (i.e. standing on the sidelines and perving on lithe teenage bodies), I got chatting to a girl, who was interested in helping run the club, or so I thought. So I agreed to let her help out, and we kept chatting every week, and she started sticking to me like shit to a stick (except she was a lot less smelly and squishy). However, me being the oblivious teenage kid back then, I was unaware that she was flirting with me. Including such conversational gems as, "Hey, we should meet up later and help each other with that IT database project," and "Shouldn't you learn your phone number at some point? What happens if a hot girl wants to give you her number?". Yes, I was fairly fucking dense to not recognise this as flirting.

The end result of me running the badminton club was actually helping someone train to eventually play at county level, and at the same time, manage to be completely fucking oblivious to a hot girl's attention. Sigh. Oh well. You win some, you lose some.

There was also a later event, where I managed to take on three people at badminton, all by myself, and won. I like to feel that my years of running the club and playing at it helped me win.

No apologies for length, some people like it.
(Ghost Atreides enjoying incontestable health benefits on, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 0:04, Reply)

Cross Country Running
Every year we were taken one one day to the park, often in the rain, and made to run around it. We started in the parking lot, which was protected by a series of concrete bollards/posts. Out of the 60 people in the class, 26 of them chose to run bollock-first into a post rather than try to run 3 miles. That was the last year we did cross-country.
(Sivvus trolley collision in the fruit aisle led to a jam, Thu 19 Nov 2009, 23:47, Reply)

Piercings
My school had a long history of piercing accidents. Essentially, if you told the teachers your family "made" you get a piercing then you got away with it, and were exempt from PE in case of an accident. Prior to this, accidents involved:

Someone getting hit on the eyebrow piercing with a basketball and getting it embedded in his forehead.

Someone getting her ring ripped out of her nose, bleeding everywhere onto the floor, and then yelling at the teacher for it.

Someone landing on their upper ear piercing when falling over in gymnastics and accidentally piercing their skull.
(Sivvus trolley collision in the fruit aisle led to a jam, Thu 19 Nov 2009, 23:43, 3 replies)

BALL GAME
“This really is out of character, I must say. I'm going to have to telephone your parents... We could even be looking at involving the police,” said Mr Widdington, my Head Master. I gulped and felt my pubescent gonads shrink to the size of two marbles and watched as Widdy reached for the phone on his desk to call my mum.

Earlier that day my year had been pissing about doing something new in PE. As we'd just started in the 3rd Year we were now officially old enough to start playing a new sport that none of us had tried before. It was a strange cult-type sport involving silly clothes, strange rituals, the use of saliva in strange and interesting ways, and no small amount of the rubbing of leather coated cork balls on groinal areas. Our impressionable thirteen year old minds were introduced to such strange phrases as short leg, silly mid wicket, googly, and OOOOOWWWWW-ZZZZZZ-AAAAA-TTTTT !!! (Usually followed by a very quiet: ”You fucker?” Under your breath for the amusement of your mates nearby.

Yes, we were going to learn how to play this toffs sport usually reserved for inbred Englishmen from monied backgrounds as an excuse to pat each other on the bottoms and proclaim: “Jolly good show, what?” While checking out each others arses in tight white linen trousers.

We were going to learn how to playing cricket.

We had cricket nets at my school. So on this bright and breezy Monday morning Cunt McCabe (the PE teacher – his surname was McCabe and he was a complete and utter cunt), took my class down to the nets and we started chucking fuck off hard balls at each other. The object being to fend said fuck off hard ball away with an oddly shaped plank of wood (if batting), or to attempt to maim your mate with a ball to the head (if bowling). But that wasn't the most exciting part. No, the best thing about this new, strange, weird sport was the fact we were going to get to put a cricket box down the front of our shorts and stride round feeling somewhat like a Roman gladiator. They were in a cardboard box off to one side, tantalizing us, dazzling us with their testicle-protecting goodness.

“Right, line up you lot,” said McCabe. We lined up. “Paul here is going to show you how its done,” McCabe called Paul Sinclair up to the front. Paul already played cricket for Warwickshire Under 15's and was a shit hot player. To Paul McCabe said: “Demonstrate a defensive stroke, Paul.”

And that's when my mind started wondering. My eyes were fixated on Paul Sinclair's crotch. Or rather the bulge there. It was fucking immense. I nudged my mate Greg stood next to me and whispered; “Paul's already got a box on.”

Short pause then Greg whispered back: ”Go on... Dare you... … …Kick him in the bollocks... ”

”Fuck off !!!”

To which Greg reasoned: ”You fucking pussy !!!”

”Fuck off, no fucking chance, mate !!!”

”Ppppppuuuuuuuusssssssssssssssyyyyyyyyy !!!!!!!!!”

And it went on like this for the length of time it took Cunt McCabe and Paul Sinclair to demonstrate the hook and pull shot to a bunch of disinterested inner city retards. Eventually I caved. As McCabe finished his demonstration with teachers pet, Paul – I'm So Fucking Good At Cricket – Sinclair, and made us give the lanky shit a round of applause as he went to step back in line, I saw my chance.

Without putting too much thought into it I launched myself forward and kicked Paul Sinclair clean plumb hard in the bollocks. I felt my toe make contact with something soft and squidgy. Paul's eyes went wide, he made a weird girlish curdling noise like a rutting narwhal, and went down in the fetal position trembling and whimpering.

My feet didn't even touch the ground, Cunt McCabe had be in Widdy's office in less than five minutes flat.

Turns out Paul wasn't wearing a cricket box at all...

only a pair of very tight shorts...

coupled with the sort of freakish supersized testicles you'd usually find swinging free at the rear end of a donkey...
( SpankyHanky, Thu 19 Nov 2009, 23:39, 13 replies)

I went to a somewhat posh school
This meant that rugby and cricket were taken ludicrously seriously. Being 6' by the time I arrived (in 1st form (year 7 in the state reckoning)) meant that I started in the B team in rugby. Despite my total lack of interest, ability or speed. I was down to the Cs by the first match, proceeded to do sod all, and was in the socials by the end of the first term.
After a couple years of throwing the short kids around (my record was getting one person from the try line to the one behind it), the school offered another choice. Fencing.
Which was perfect, I generally enjoy combat sports (done my fair share of martial arts), so I took to it rather well.

Those complaining about injuries in rugby or football dont know pain until you have seen a man take a running fléche (probably spelt wrongly, but basically a leaping/running attack with the sword stuck out infront of you) right to the nads, during a badly timed lunge (so both comatants were moving at a fair lick), He spent the next 10 minutes writhing in agony on the floor.

This choice also let me get an A at French, working on the assumption that if you could make the teachers laugh enough they wouldnt notice the mistakes in the oral, I memorised the following line:
"J'aime l'escrime, pace que je peux poignarder des autres personnes et m'echapper belle"
Which, roughly translated, means "I like fencing, because I can stab other people and get away with it"

Length? Well, it wasnt just my height that grew early...
( Tedium Alduce me to interlow myself., Thu 19 Nov 2009, 23:32, Reply)

I
went to school in Ireland for six months once. Catholic ex-convent school (lots of them around) and I can genuinely say that it was the smallest and thinnest I've ever felt in my entire life. I'm average weight and height, but compared to the six-footers that populated PE I was an anorexic, tiny fairylike little thing, who could be thrown around as lightly as a feather and with as little consequence.

The first sport of the year was rugby. I'd watched half a rugby game once, and that was my entire knowledge of the sport. I had no idea of the rules, the positions, or the general ethos of the game, beyond the vague knowledge that it was a homoerotic game played by large hairy men. Being (relatively) small/thin I was called upon to be the 'hooker' to my utter bewilderment. What was this strange sport that encouraged prostitution? I attempted to beg off by claiming I wasn't dressed for it (no fishnets) but was met with a stony glare. After a bit of running around, the PE teacher (who interestingly enough was also the useless IT teacher) picked me to demonstrate some tackle on.

Standing on a mat, I had no clue what was happening. So when the teacher dropped to her knees in front of me, and placed her cheek to my thigh I was understandably slightly curious, she then looked up (uncomfortably close) and proceeded to demonstrate her throw- which consisted of nearly lifting me up and throwing me onto my back. It was like lesbian judo, only my chances of a medal were pretty small. I stood up, wheezing like a small balloon and she gave me the nastiest smile I've ever seen, and proceeded to demonstrate the same throw (this time with a runup) three more times, until on the fourth, unable to take anymore I stepped backwards.

Not a wise move. She pretty much encouraged the entire class to pick on the English girl, and since it was a contact sport, literally anything went- broken glasses, bruising, mass pileups. All in the name of fun of course. I started fighting back when I realised it was going beyond a joke, and it got me grudging respect from everyone except her. I still wonder if she shoves her face in people's crotches without their consent.
( Amberl was stripey and dominated Europe, Thu 19 Nov 2009, 23:30, Reply)

Mr Jones
Mr Jones was the fearsome Welsh tyrant of the PE department at St. Georges in Broadstairs where I went to school back in the early 80's.

Now I hated PE. Im built like a beanpole and was rubbish at nearly all the activities we were forced to take part in. If I kicked a ball, one of two things would happen. Either it would fly off at some weird angle, probably behind me, or I would completely miss and hoof a great a great clod of grass straight into someones face, and then fall over.

But by far the most frightening part of the whole PE expreience for my 12 year old self was the showers afterwards. There were no individual private cubicles, just a tiled room with a line of shower heads sticking out of the wall. This meant I would have to be naked in front of my mates. Not good.

But to add to the embarassment of seeing each others cocks, we also had Mr Jones to deal with.

He saw it as his personal duty to ensure each one of us was given a towel after showering. Rather than just leaving the basket of towels by the shower exit for us to grab one as we came out, he would stand by the basket to personally supervise the whole process. As each wet, naked boy exited the shower room, we would have to approach Mr Jones and ask him for a towel. If you were lucky (or, I guess, if he didnt fancy you) he would just pass you a towel. But sometimes he liked to play his little 'game'.

The 'game' involved him holding out a towel for you, then, just as you were about to grab it, putting it behind his back. You would then have to try to get the towel off him, reaching one way, then the next, sometimes running in circles around him. Eventually you would manage to get the towel and could go and dry off and restore some dignity.

His little games came to an abrupt and glorious end one day when he did this to my mate Julian.

Julian was a hard little fucker and a bit of a nutcase, but very funny. Me and him were the class clowns, but he was always the more daring one, and was always in trouble. One day, he came out of the shower and the familiar 'chasing the towel around Mr Jones' back' game started. He played along for a while, but then stopped, and stood in front of Mr Jones flapping his cock about with his hand.

"Seen enough yet, Sir?"

The rest of the class fell silent.

"Can I have a towel now please?" (still flapping his cock about)

The whole class erupted into gales of laughter. Mr Jones handed Julian a towel and slinked off, ignoring the cries of "fucking pervert" and such like, which would normally have seen us carted off to the headmasters office. He never played his 'game' again.

I would do a length gag at this point, but I feel it would be inappropriate.
(Lionel Tiger, Thu 19 Nov 2009, 23:23, Reply)

not all female P.E teachers are lesbians
but ours were. there were 2 very nice teachers to start with, but as soon as it became common knowledge that they were intimately involved with one another, they were fired. their replacements were also lesbians, but nowhere near as nice.
one of them, Miss Withers, was a particularly nasty bitch, delighting in making us run 4 miles every lesson. well, those of us that hadn't worked out where the gap in the fence was, anyway.
one day, whilst we were in the changing room, Miss Withers was giving us her usual blather about team spirit or some such bollocks. as usual, me and my friend Joanne were completely ignoring her and talking amongst ourselves.
after 5 minutes of this, Miss Withers lost patience. "Smash Monkey, are you with us?" she asked.
with a look of pure innocence, i replied "no, Miss, i'm Smash Monkey, you're Withers. don't you remember your own name?"
it was worth the 20 laps around the sports hall.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Thu 19 Nov 2009, 23:09, 6 replies)

Not a rugby player
When I was at school, most things revolved around the rugby team, if you weren't good enough to be in the rugby team, then you weren't deemed "sporty or athletic". I wasn't in the rugby team, so I wasn't classed as sporty. Now, one of the options to rugby was swimming. The swimming collective (we weren't really allowed to call ourselves a team, considering we only had one or two swim meets every year) were rather quiet in our athletic ability, we trained hard, but had fun as well. We did also have to deal with the usual piss taking from the kids who considered themselves to be the "jocks". Yes they did watch Beverly Hills 90210.

Now one particularly cold winter day, the weather was so bad that the rugby pitch froze, and the team were unable to carry out their usual homoerotic cuddling around an egg shaped ball, and a rugby ball as well. So they were told to report to the swimming pool and train with us for the afternoon.

Now as I said, we trained hard, but weren't accorded the respect of the "jocks" of the school. The rugby team were laughing and joking about how whimpy we all were and pushing and shoving each other around. We started the training session with our usual 40 lengths of the 15m pool to warm up. The rugby team members were noticeably quieter after the warm up.

We then launched into our usual training session. These days I would definitely struggle to complete even the first part, but back then we all trained fairly hard.

The afternoon culminated in a large number of the rugby team throwing up in the showers afterwards and being very sheepish for a few hours. Now I'd like to say that things changed for the better, but unfortunately, that only happens in fairy tales. Things were back to normal after the weekend, with the "jocks" reasserting themselves as the dominant species at school. But that afternoon still is one of my fonder memories of that place.
(Blue_in_Exile, Thu 19 Nov 2009, 23:01, 1 reply)

I was a fairly weedy kid in senior school
and was constantly bullied by pretty much everyone. I hated going, and especially hated P.E.

The teacher quite liked me, and I think she felt a bit sorry for me because she'd sometimes yell at the other girls when they picked on me.
However, as I was fairly weedy & shy, I was a bit of a late starter when it came to puberty.

The day I got my first ever period in the showers after gym class.....well, that's when all hell broke loose.
Got my own back on all those bitches and bastards at the school disco though.
( Batshitmentalist is sane for once, Thu 19 Nov 2009, 22:54, 3 replies)

Oddly Lyrical...
I was hopeless at PE. Utterly hopeless. Well, apart from swimming. I can swim like a fish, and could then, but anything running-related basically made me look like a coffee-flavoured jelly in a blender. Only uglier. And then there's football. It can't be hard. You need a foot and a ball. Well, I've got basically no physical co-ordination at all.

Me and sports basically didn't mix. So, during football, I'd just try to stay out of the way until the game was over, hoping that the kids who were actually some good at this could sort it for me. I got away with it until one year my PE school report said "purplegod reminds me of Cinderella, in that he's always running away from the ball".

This remained my personal best, until the year I was caught skiving during cricket practice. That PE teacher grabbed me by a body part and dragged me over to the cricket nets. He explained though the medium of hysterical screamage what he wanted me to do, and handed me a cricket ball. I lined up, aimed, and bowled. I didn't actually injure myself, so I thought it had gone OK. Sadly, everyone else disagreed, including the lad I hit unexpectedly. I'd accidentally twatted the kid in the next net to the one I was aiming at. I'd never seen a PE teacher speechless before. In the end, he turned to me and sagged a little. It was like it was his puppy I'd just brained. He looked sadly in my direction, and said "As you were, purplegod." Then he added, "You know, purplegod, I don't believe what I've just seen. You're not just *bad*, you're a bloody disgrace to the entire game of cricket".

It's all been downhill since.
(purplegod counting down for Christmas!, Thu 19 Nov 2009, 22:27, Reply)

Too hard for me
I hated PE. I was a fat lazy bugger all of my early life. But I still had to do 1 period of PE and a double of games each week. That was cast in stone. I'll have a few stories this week but this is the first that springs to mind.

Our school had a swimming pool. In all my 6 years there, I was only in it once. Just as well. It was very small, and heated to a level just sufficient to keep ice from forming on the surface. Anyway, this day, in first year, my class had been swimming. And after our chilly aquatic exercise, we were back in the changing room, drying ourselves off and dressing.

Now I wasn't an early developer, so at this point in time (aged 12 or 13), I had between my legs what is best described as a 'baldy half-incher'. I was of course in no hurry to demonstrate this to my classmates, so I was getting dried and dressed while atempting to maintain maximum towel coverage.

However, my friend Robert was standing right next to me at the time, and was being rather less shy about his unclad state. I turned to him to say something, but whatever it was never made it past my lips, because I immediately lost the power of speech when my eyes caught sight of him.

He was standing there, right next to me, fully nude, with an erection. Not just a little stiff willy like I got when I went to bed at night, but a humungous great stonker. This thing must have been, oh, easily a foot long and had at its base a big pair of hairy plums the size of snooker balls*. I don't know what shocked me more, the fact that his cock was three times the size of mine or that he was standing very close to me with it in an engorged state. It seemed like he'd been putting a bucket over his genitalia at night, to force them like rhubarb.

I was so stunned that I never spoke a word to him about it. He's not gay, so I don't know what it was all about, but I think that if I'd had a boner in the changing rooms, no matter how big it was, I'd have been trying my damnedest to cover it up rather than have it bob around for all to see.



*Of course, it was probably just normal adult cock-sized, but it looked huge to me at the time.
( K2k6 has a proper job these days, Thu 19 Nov 2009, 22:21, Reply)

Turps for burps
Our PE teacher – who I shall call Mr King for certain legal reasons – was the top man when it came to ironic punishments. These mostly involved very long cross-country runs to the sewage works and back, or something involving the changing room showers and huge jugs of iced water.

The other side of the coin was that he knew how to have a laugh and bring the whole class with him on his journey into mirth.

It was the last day of term, and the brothers Collins were moving away from the area. They were a popular pair, and King wanted to mark the occasion in their last PE lesson before they disappeared from our lives for good.

“Right lads,” he says, as we sat cross-legged and expectant before him, “What the pair of you have to do is this...”

*twitch*

Ex-boxer, you know. Every punch got through.

“You will run the length of the sports hall. You will *twitch* down the glass of cider waiting for you. You will run back. The winner gets the rest of the bottle. *twitch* Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, WHAT?”

“Sir.”

He blew the whistle and the brothers Collins raced to the far end of the hall. There, as promised, were two glasses, which they both necked – eagerly – in one gulp.

Neat turps.

Dave immediately bowked rich, brown vomit all over the cricket nets. Then he bowked rich, brown vomit all over Slow Andy, before pissing his own pants.

His brother Steve, on the other hand, legged it back to Mr King and virtually ripped the half-empty bottle out of his hands.

“Why *twitch* Why aren't you dead?”
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Thu 19 Nov 2009, 22:18, 1 reply)

"Come on Amish...
...it's only pain. It won't hurt you."
( Amish Information Systems hates misplaced, commas, Thu 19 Nov 2009, 22:12, 1 reply)

True Story
Haven't posted a lot, but those that know me, know that I'm a primary head teacher.

Once while taking a PE lesson in my third primary school, a rather overweight Y6 girl was attempting to wind herself in and out of the wooden ladder on what the children used to laughingly refer to as "the apparatus" (never a truer word.....), when she froze.

Literally

All the coaxing in the world couldn't get her to relax. She was well and truly stuck, poor girl.

After half an hour we had to get the fire brigade in to cut her free. They sawed the ladder into bits to free her.

Did I get a bollixing from The Boss? You bet! Those ladders cost three hundred odd quid back in the eighties!!

Other than that I've had a relatively accident/trauma free life as a teacher of primary PE.

Apart from the two broken arms in less than a week in 1997, but that's another story.......
( The Lone Groover has mal des nuts., Thu 19 Nov 2009, 22:08, 2 replies)

Steve fucking Backley.
Somehow my school managed to arrange a visit from Olympic silver medalist Steve Backley to give us training with Javelin, which I suppose was logical.

However, they only had a limited number of spaces and therefore they decided to hold a competition. Now, Javelin was not an event I excelled at, but I was more than reasonable at throwing the long pointy thing and pretty much a shoe in to get training from a real life Olympian.

The whole year got changed into our PE kits and were herded down to the sports hall. Naturally this seemed a little odd to me, the Javelin as we all know is a big sharp pointy fucker that was much better at slamming at a great speed into grass, rather than poorly varnished Parquet flooring, but I merely assumed that we'd be having a talk before being led down to the field to perform our throws.

The sight when I stepped through that door was absolutely fucking horrific, they had a case of what appeared to be foam darts of about three feet in length with wonky foam flights. The qualities of the damn things differed greatly from foam spear to foam spear, some were more like fucking three inch thick foam boomerangs than precision instruments designed to fly gracefully through the air, some had tears in them, some had missing flights and it appeared that they were being carefully selective as to who received which.

Those with the most prowess in a wider range of disciplines were dutifully handed a clean, straight well formed Javelin as well as guidance on how to launch it as far as humanly possible in comparison with the ones which remained in the store cupboard not thirty feet away.

Others, who for whatever reason were determined would not be in the select few, were handed deformed banana devices which were designed to ensure that we didn't get training and an afternoon with someone who a few months earlier had been competing for glory at the Olympic games. To compensate for this, we were also given fuck all in the way of encouragement or advice. I wasn't called up early into the proceedings, they had a fairly random method of selecting whose turn it was to throw, which appeared to be based around getting certain people into the training session and excluding others.

When my turn came I was handed my Javelin and given my single throw. The damned thing was warped and the flights were twisted, but I gave it my all regardless. Had that been a real Javelin I'm sure I could have taken down a fucking plane, it absolutely soared and the bend actually worked in my favour! It arched into the air much higher than the angle of the throw should have realistically allowed and proceeded to curve into a reasonable trajectory and sort of floated down to land in what appeared to be around 4th greatest in distance thrown.

They didn't even both to measure the fucker.

They collected it, sat me back down and continued to get the few remaining people to try out, there were a few other throws which were somewhat interesting, starting off straight before curving towards the wall of pupils sat awaiting the announcement as to who would be progressing to receive the cherished prize, much to the amusement of everyone but the poor bastard who threw it, who had immediately failed to qualify.

To cut a long story short, they couldn't quite fix it as they had desired due to the errant and random nature of foam javelin throwing, so decided to announce the people going through as they had tried to fix it anyway. A few of us complained, moaned, whined but of course it fell completely on deaf ears. The 10 boys who went on were pretty much representative of the football team and a few people who they could not dispute at all, and the girls hockey team. Their attempts to comfort me and others who also seemed to have been royally screwed really didn't help matters at all, but I couldn't help but laugh when one of my closest friends threw up over the back seat of his car a few days later whilst being escorted away from the school disco for being shit-faced. The other PE teacher, well, in an unrelated incident, another friend decided to use his car as an obstacle during a short run and left a huge fuck off dent in the bonnet. Again, I couldn't help but laugh.

What prize cunts my teachers were.
( Muns, Thu 19 Nov 2009, 22:06, 2 replies)

I was never particularly good at PE
As my sports of choice (power kiting and skiing) are not exactly classroom material, but I did enjoy it and I always tried quite hard, despite the fact that at ages 10-13 I bore a striking resemblance to the Michelin man.

Bearing this in mind, I was very rarely chosen for demonstrations of excellence. Until one rainy day when I was about twelve and we were doing that crap "excercise circuit" thing in the gym. There was one point where we had to take a run up, leap onto a springboard, soar gracefully flail wildly through the air, grab two ropes, swing on them and drop onto a waiting mat. It looked really, really fucking difficult, so I was as amazed as my teacher when I got it perfect the first time. As I was the first person to do it properly (as in actually taking a proper, committed running jump), he stopped the circuit and asked me to demonstrate again.

The class gathered round into a semicircle as my pride levels went through the roof of the gym and took up residence somewhere on the moon. I backed up nearly the full length of the gym and began my run. I travelled faster and faster down the gym until it seemed that I didn't need the springboard to fly. I hit the jump and nailed it perfectly. I was flying! I was flying! I had missed both ropes, and the mat, and smashed face first into the floor!

But I can laugh about it now. Mostly.
( MatJ LOOK, Thu 19 Nov 2009, 22:05, Reply)

Phew!
My high school PE teacher was the school wrestling coach. He was legendary in his intensity, taking the team to state year-after-year. Short and stocky, with a flat-top buzz haircut, Stony was not so much evil as supremely focused.

In the movie "Vision Quest" www.imdb.com/title/tt0090270/ the rival team, 'Evergreen', is based on my schools team, and Stony appears as the referee. You can see his intensity in the film - that's not acting, it's passion. For wrestling.

This focus naturally lead to PE class featuring wrestling. Lots of wrestling. Nothing like being a perpetually horny teenager and spending the period before lunch with your arms wrapped around some smelly jerk, trying to either hold him down or get loose.

Not that I have anything against wrestling, wonderful sport. Very athletic. But the smell - fuck me, what an awful memory!
(danalan Pretty good, for an amateur., Thu 19 Nov 2009, 22:03, Reply)

One Liners
Also, while I'm at it, I've just remembered this...

While waiting for the basketballs to be herded into their container by the brick headed bacteria fodder, one of the more athletic members of our class started jumping up to swing from the hoop. All well and good until he started crowing about his abilities, aiming his taunts at me in particular (presenting no significant challenge to his masculinity I suspect...).

You know those moments when conversation seems to simultaneously die off for only one person to be left saying something, clear as day in front of everyone? That was exactly the scenario as I uttered the response:

"Nah, s'alright, I'm really not into touching other people's rings like you are."

Thus securing athletic boy's status as a ring-toucher for the rest of our school career - one of my proudest achievements from school.
( Sonic James Doom forgetting the date since... umm..., Thu 19 Nov 2009, 21:54, Reply)

It's not about a psychotic
It's about the only time I ever did anything really naughty at school.

A friend had brought Vodka; I purchased an orange soda right before PE. Picture me, 30 mins later, swinging from the ropes in the gym.. WEEEEE!!!!
( Scoopzilla http://www.slapwatch.com now get to fuck, Thu 19 Nov 2009, 21:52, Reply)

Adam
Adam was one of those kids at primary school who had the occasional bladder issue. One day he'd been hard at work giving his trousers, and all the spare clothes available a personal rinse when it came to an afternoon PE session in the assembly hall.

Due to the fact that there were now no longer any spare pants available, he was forced to undertake the PE lesson in just his t-shirt and plimsolls.

There isn't a mind bleach strong enough to remove the image scarred into the back of mind of Adam scaling the monkey bars with everything on display.
( flapmeister knows where your mum lives, Thu 19 Nov 2009, 21:51, 1 reply)