Swim Class
Picture the scene; a group of 9-10 year olds, all shivering, teeth chattering as the teacher tries to encourage them to swim into the depths of the murky water and retrieve the rubber block from the crusty veruca laden pool floor. The children are pale, and try mercifully to dodge any dead insects that may happen to float past their open mouths as they come hastily to the surface for an intake of oxygen. We’ve all been there, and whether it be the horrible water we were made to swim in, the weird green water we had to stand in before entering the pool, or trying to sneak a peek through the cracks in the changing rooms to catch the opposite sex stark bollock naked, we’ve all got different memories about swim class at school.

I hated swimming - there was no pleasure to be taken from getting into freezing cold water whilst receiving orders from a miserable teacher, who wanted to be inside as much as I did. It was on about my third of fourth swim class of the year that this story happened, and it is one that I look back on with mixed emotions. On this particular day, it was raining and windy, yet we were made to go swimming anyway. The water actually felt warm for once; probably because it was so cold in the old, wooden shack that passed for a changing room. I remember feeling as if I could crimp off a poo before I entered the water, but not wanting to make my excuses to go to the toilet, I kept quiet. ‘It isn’t that strong an urge’ I thought to myself, and so I just clenched as tightly as I could as I tried to do a length of the pool in unison with half of my class mates. This is more difficult when you’re all doing backstoke, and arms and heads are colliding with one another, as well as the sides of the pool. When I finally reached the other end, the ‘slight urge’ to poo, had now become a desperate one.

I still don’t know why I didn’t ask to go to the toilet – probably the fact that everyone would know I was off to lay a brown bog trout, so I stood in the waist high water and crossed my legs, inhaling as much as I could, hoping to suck my ever-nearing poo back up into my anus. I watched as other members of the class were made to dive under the water and fetch a 10p piece, and then I felt it. Reaching around to the back of my shorts, I gently ‘cupped’ the fabric and felt the unmistakable heaviness of a fresh log. It had slipped out without warning, and I had a predicament literally on my hands. I couldn’t waddle out of the pool, with my newly acquired tail protuding proudly from the back of my shorts, so I suppose I did what any 9 year old kid would do – I pulled my shorts to the side and dangled my leg about, until my newborn dropped free. This was harder than I first thought it would be, as my swim shorts had that tight netting-like layer. I thank God that I wasn’t wearing speedos.

My plan was going well. I had released my poo, and the next step was to give it a swift kick to the side and then carry on swimming as normal, except my plan didn’t get this far. To my horror, it floated slowly, agonisingly, to the surface, spinning as it rose in the water. I turned my back on it, hoping to hide it from view. With the realisation that I was ever closer to being caught for dumping in the pool ( it was nearly my turn to dive for the 10p), I turned back to face it, and it one swift motion, scooped it out of the water and discarded it on the side of the pool, where it sat like a giant dehydrated slug until the end of the lesson. I still don’t know how I didn’t get caught, but now I make sure that I always use the toilet prior to getting in a swimming pool.
(Monkey the Chicken Twitter: death_stairs, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 12:04, 4 replies)

Physical embarrasment
The "forgotten your kit" things seems to be a recurring theme. I remember at the age of seven or so having brought everything bar my shorts being told to stand in my underpants in front of the class. Nothing unusual there this had happened several times before however the teacher then proceeded to punch two holes into an old paper tescos bags (remember them?) made me wear these impromptu shorts and then tied them with a piece of string "belt". This was considerably more embarassing than just pants. didn´t get a girlfriend for quite while....(this could be down to the haircut I had at the time but I can't be sure).
(dazzleb, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 12:02, Reply)

Did anyone else
have a morbidly obese PE teacher who constantly shouted at anyone for not doing something right when they couldn't run 20 meters without gobbling down a pukka pie.

and yes I'm talking about you Mr. Green you Arab looking bastard
(NuffMuff fucks shrubbery, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 12:01, Reply)

My pal Tom
Like me was an unathletic type and once got the ball, presumably by accident, in a game of rugby. He whirls round and in a moment of genius points up and says, "Look! A total eclipse!" Everyone stops to look and he runs the whole length of the pitch to a try. Games teacher is unimpressed, goes apeshit and makes him run laps for the afternoon.

Surely the correct thing to do would be to give him a fucking medal!
(ManekiNeko loves horses, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 11:53, Reply)

Are you... wet?
Back at prep school, the older girls (aged 12/13) were allowed the use of the two individual shower cubicles which each had an actual shower-curtain, whilst all younger girls had to use the communal shower with its yellow-stained tiles and soggy verucca plasters blocking the drain.

Lucky older girls, you would think, no?

No.

The younger girls had to suffer the indignity of a female teacher watching them all run around under the dribbly shower-heads, to make sure that they were indeed cleansing themselves after a strenuous hour of doing fuck-all in rounders.

Because the older girls, however, took advantage of using the shower curtains to prevent anyone seeing if they'd started puberty yet (if you had, you were roundly mocked), the teachers felt that they had to check that a shower had indeed been taken (instead of the girl just standing in the cubicle and avoiding the water). The teacher would stand outside the cubicles, and as a girl emerged from the cubicle she would have to stand still, towel clutched in front of her as the teacher ran her hands over the girls bottom, to check if it was wet.

At the time this seemed perfectly normal. Suddenly, however, I'm not so sure.
(The Empress it seems you CAN polish a turd!, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 11:53, 9 replies)

PE for me meant hanging around doing nothing...
I broke my ankle rather badly when I was 13, and thus got out of PE for over a year. This was hellish in winter (freezing arse off standing by the football pitch having to make small talk with the teacher) but rather pleasant in summer (lounging around beside the tennis courts sunbathing when everybody else was getting all sweaty wielding nasty plastic tennis rackets).

One such summer day there were three of us not doing PE. Me (the aforementioned ankle), Jonathan ("forgotten" PE kit) and Weed (broken arm). Weed was not his real name, but that's what everybody called him since primary school, so much so that I'm buggered if I can remember what his real name was. Even the teachers called him Weed. We were sitting there, working on our tans, chatting about this and that, when Jonathan suddenly turned to Weed and said, "Weed, have you started your periods yet?"

Both Weed and I guffawed and WTFed until Jon surreptitiously winked at me...

Me: Yeah Weed, haven't you started your periods yet?
Weed: Boys don't have periods!
Jon: They do! Haven't you started yours yet?
Weed: No...
Me: Really?
Weed: When are you supposed to start?
Jon: When you're about eleven or twelve... If I hadn't started by now I'd be a bit worried
Weed: So, like, what happens?
Jon: It's horrible, all blood starts coming out your knob and stuff
Me: Haven't you started yet?
Weed: Oh, I just remembered, I HAVE started my periods!

Happy days...
(grandmasterfluffles Come to my Armageddon party on, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 11:52, 3 replies)

The good: We got to go Canoing for our PE lessons
The bad: It was on the canal.

Our school was alongside one of the many canals that crisscross Cheshire and legend had it that when you got to the 3rd year you could go canoing for PE.

Come year three and one day lo! we were told we were going canoing, much joy ensued as we chose our kayaks. The most gleeful shout was from 2 guys who's name I forget when they found a 2-man kayak.

After a bit of instruction on oar usage we were told that it would be a really bad idea to capsize into the water as, well basically it's a canal. Disease and pollutants abound.

I think some sort of light came on in the heads of the 2-man team as they hatched a plan.

After a good 10 minutes of familiarising ourselves with our water steeds there was the shout of,'Ramming speed Mr Christian' as the double length kayak came steaming into view.

I think they managed to capsize 3 other kids before the whole thing was called off.

We never got to go canoing again. :(

It was funny seeing 3 very miserable kids being ordered back to the changing rooms for a very long shower though.
( Airman Gabber Living life like a 70's BBC presenter, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 11:50, Reply)

No paedo
I actually quite liked our PE teachers. Didn't stop me being utterly *shite* at the whole subject.

So 'Summer' was here, and we had cross country runs. Week one, I wheezed my way around the course, with a quite spectacularly large number going in the 'Time' column next to my name on the teacher's clipboard.

Come the following week, he says 'Right, we're going to do this as a handicap. If I work it out right you should all get back together.'

Down he sits with the clipboard, casts an eye down the names. 'Right, Moog. You set off now, while I work out everyone else's'

Off I trot.

I still came in last. Upon looking at my *new* time, he simply said 'I could have walked it in that!'

I think it was the cheeky grin I gave him when I said 'Damn. My cunning plan has been foiled' that meant I didn't get a detention. Soon after that they discovered I was good with computers, and I basically ran unofficial IT support while the rest of the class had PE.

I'm just not built for running.
( moogthedog, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 11:45, 1 reply)

Mr O
During my first few years of 'big' school we had a PE teacher called Mr Olgilvy (I think that's how you spell it). Anyway, he was a legendary bullshitter, much along the lines of;

"Well boys, when I was your age I used to run 5 miles and swim 100 lengths before breakfast..."

In our first ever PE lesson he gave us the customary tour of the changing rooms, insisting on aquainting us with the shower facilities. He encouraged us to bring in speedoes to wear in the shower because he didn't want to see our 'dirty tackle'. Get it? Hmm..

Whilst demonstrating a forwards roll during a gymnastics lesson (accompanied by his "When I were a lad..." crap) several packets of cigarettes fell out of his pocket, much to our amusement and his embarassment.

He had a heart attack a few years back and quit teaching. Not sure if he's still about. Shame. I kind of liked him.
(Captain Kenneth 's Greatest Hits on sale now, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 11:43, Reply)

I went to a posh school
We didn't have PE lessons, we played sport.
(Vice Admiral Sir Charles Cockbrush KCB MBE DSO, who is finding it increasingly difficult to log into b3ta.com wants to duck your aunt and kick your puppy, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 11:35, 4 replies)

Forgot your kit?
Two words: Sweat Box.
(The Boy Monders I have ginger bits in my beard., Fri 20 Nov 2009, 11:31, Reply)

PE Cross Dressing
Amongst some of the PE related 'law of the playgorund' at my school was that you never ever, under any circumstances wore y fronts when you had PE- it HAD to be boxer shorts as per late 80s/early 90s fashion and that if you didnt want to do PE you conveniently forgot your kit...

So wearing a far too big pair of boxers myself and a chum stroll upto the PE office and say we've forgotten our kit
'Oh bad luck boys we've got no spare boys kit ' says Mr Jones the action man-alike ex Royal marine who taught us PE
'We'll have to sit it out then sir? Oh shame I really enjoy playing hockey too' says I with a smug little smirk on my face
'No I said we didnt have any spare BOYS kit-you two can do it in these' says Jones handing us two tiny girls PE skirts and equally tiny polo shirts
So off we go to play hockey dressed as schoolgirls with, due to wearing totally unsupportive boxer shorts, our undercarriages swinging in the breeze for everyone to see and remind us of at every fucking opptunity up until our early 20s

Im pretty sure Mr Jones would have been bollocked for sexual assault or something these days
( bigmeuprudeboy is using powerpoint or paint...have MERCY, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 11:11, Reply)

Mr Sheilds
Mr Shields was ace. I went to a boys' grammar school, where our reputation rested upon academic achievement and a good rugby team. I fitted into neither category.

I was hopeless at sport but Mr Shields, a sinewy, ex-army PT instructor, with a fine 118-118 moustache, rated enthusiasm above ability. He didn't care if you didn't win the race, as long as you tried. He encouraged teamwork as well as competition.

But he could be a bastard sometimes.

Our pool changing rooms had metal benches, secured by heating pipes that ran to the ceiling. The heating was never turned on and Shields would make sure that the door to the changing room, which led directly outside, was always open. Being a tad nervous at 11 or 12, we were all a little bit weird about getting our kit off in front of our mates, so changing was a bit slow. Mr Shields would walk around the changing rooms with a baseball bat. If you weren't getting changed fast enough he would twat the bat against the pipe just an inch from your head. That hurried things along a bit.

He would come up with ingenious games to build up character (i.e. hurt you). One of his favourites was to have you in the upright press up position, arms stretched. He would be in the same position facing you. The aim of the game was to topple your opponent by trying to knock his arm away from under him with one hand whilst still staying in that position. Shields was made of iron; not even the strongest kid could topple him over and we all got bruised arms from him doing it to us.

He was a top bloke though but left after my second year, to be replaced by a rugby-obsessed dickhead who hated anyone that didn't like sport, i.e. me and my mates who spent the rest of our grammar school lives coming up with new and ingenious illnesses to get out of it.
(Ghostlight, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 11:11, Reply)

School sports day
I would have been about six. Not fat, but a little portly and far more inclined to read a book than exert myself like some sort of oik. This did not endear me to those trying to teach me pe and I quickly gained the tag, not entirely unfairly, 'not very good at sport' that would stick with me for the rest of my educational career (although I'm a strong swimmer and aces at table tennis - football and rugby not so much).

So a slightly overcast but not intemperate summer's day dawns and I toddle off to school somewhat underwhelmed at the prospect of a day doing nothing other than short bursts of sport followed by long, long stretches of having to watch other people do sport better than me. Much like, I would imagine, the ugliest guy at a swinger's party (substituting sport for fucking, obviously. I didn't do a lot of either at age six).

I volunteer for some sort of running event seeing as at least it doesn't involve anything complicated and it will be over relatively quickly. So, time drags its feet until eventually it's my go. I find myself on the starting line trying to adopt the same starting pose as my competitors - Right knee bent, left arm up, like a freeze frame of a man mid-sprint, certain in the knowledge that a) this is bound to make you run faster and b) you also look damn cool. Silence and eager anticipation falls over the crowd, except for the slightly grubby looking girl crying out as the curly haired psycho boy has just hit her in the arm. There is no starter's gun, I guess because it's more difficult to run when your shorts are soaked with terrified weewee, but on the shout of go we launch ourselves down the track with furious pace and aplomb.

I should point out at this point that while I would not describe myself as a sports day enthusiast, I do have a strong aversion to losing if I can possibly not, and so it is with genuine determination I pound down the track, plimsolls practically aflame, faster than a rocket or the biker mice from mars. An early spring growth spurt had left me taller than most of my cohorts, and I make full advantage of it. I glance to my left - no one in sight. With guarded optimism, I check my right. Vacant. I'm winning! I'm actually winning! At sport! Elation courses through me like a forest fire and I'm spurred to quicken the pace even further. I'm miles ahead! This is great!

Driven crazy by glory, I fail to notice the line of children waiting at the finish line that would otherwise have jarred my memory... no, I am a victor, my opponents vanquished. I think of nothing other than the adulation of the crowd. As such it takes a few seconds to sink in that far from adulation, I am in fact being shouted at urgently and a small girl is making to punch me on the arm to draw my attention. The presence of a coloured steel cylinder in my hand makes itself re-known and it all comes flooding back. Ah.

Despite my blisteringly fast first leg, my team went on to lose the relay and I was deeply unpopular until a dog wandered into the school grounds and the sheer excitement pushed the sorry affair from everyone's mind.
(WarneMarsh My priority for frivolity begets quality jollity, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 11:09, Reply)

if you had spent
hours in the morning curling or straightening your hair and piling on the mascara, you would also have found PE, with the sweat and the wind and the rain, to be a complete disaster. so as soon as my friend sam and i got to sixth form, when community service became an option, we took it.

a few weeks later, we had been booted off the community service scheme for failing to turn up to the old people's lunches. we did have good intentions, but we were only 16, and the sight of so much death crammed into one room sucking puree'd carrots through yellowed dentures was a bit much. so we fucked off elsewhere. after a severe bollocking when the school found out, we were told to go and report for one of the games options. halfway around the path, sam looked at me and said brightly,

"if we don't sign up for any of them..."

... "then noone will know," i finished. and they didn't.

we had an extra double free lesson every friday for a year, it was bloody glorious. i only got worried when it came to report time, but luckily the teacher who ran the scheme was so incensed that she was happy to spew her bile all over our reports, and they never went near the PE team.
( rachelswipe with a fork, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 11:05, 1 reply)

Running.
I didn't mind P.E. Except for running. Particulary cross CoUNTry running. I hated it. on this particular day our P.E Teacher set us off on a lap of the running field. After setting off like a steam train, about half way round, i realised I couldn't be arsed. I gave up and walked the rest, along with the tubbies that could barely manage a gentle jog - even when threatened with violence.

Five minutes after everyone else finished I ambled up. Our P.E teacher tore a strip off me, asking why I walked. I made some feeble excuse about having hurt my leg which made the P.E teacher go red in the face and scream at me "bullsh*t! what your telling me is bullsh*t!!" Bits of spit where flying from his mouth as he yelled this at the top of his voice. It scared the crap out of me and the rest of the class - after that experience even the athletically challenged made sure they looked like they were trying.


Length? about 800 metres.
(snowboardrob, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 11:03, Reply)

Cross Country
I was reminded of this by Mrs Liveinabin's story yesterday. My school was also on the outskirts of town, so when we did cross country running round the back roads, our teacher used to come along in his car after us to make sure no-one had died en route, or whatever.

However, I'd sussed this and used it to my advantage, as had, on occasion, a couple of mates. We'd run up the first bit of road, round the corner by the trees and then sit on the first convenient wall. When we heard the tell-tale sounds of an engine, we'd get up, and start lumbering along. The teacher would come along and usually offer us a lift, as games was last lesson of the day and we had buses to catch.

I remember one day I was skiving in this way on my own, when he picked me up, and took me to the far side of the playing fields, then stopped. "OK, if you get out here and run back to the school, nobody will know I gave you a lift", he said, trying to preserve my self respect and dignity with my classmates.

I weighed up the options. WTF, everyone knew I was a lazy fat bugger. And it was cold and wet outside.

"No, it's OK sir. Just keep going please and take me back to the school. I'm knackered."

So he did. I turned up just as the stragglers who had slogged their way round the whole course were getting back. Yes, I probably got a bit of ribbing, but I cared not a jot, as it saved me a lot of exertion.
( K2k6 has a proper job these days, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 10:56, Reply)

PEnice
I always hated PE until, at the age of 13 (by which time I knew I was as gay as it gets,) we got a new PE teacher (lets call him Mr Hot.) Suddenly i had someone worth fantasizing about at night. Anyways, in the last PE lesson before the Christmas hols we were allowed to play jousting where one kid sits on another kid's shoulders and attempts to topple his 2 opponents.

Well, to demonstrate to the class how to fall safely Mr Hot puts me on his shoulders and walks over to the mats. By this time some of those nighttime fantasies about having Mr Hot's head between my thighs have come close to fruition and of course I got a massive stiffy which was slapping the back of his head as he was walking.

Anyhoo, he demonstrates the fall and the class erupts at the sight of Mr Hot going very red in the face and me on my back with my shorts doing a great impression of a ridge-pole tent.

(I relived that scenario in my dreams many times later on only with a more exciting ending and without my classmates mocking and abusing me.)
(Ivor Biggin, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 10:51, Reply)

Dumfries High School, sometime in the 1980s....
As you may have seen on the news in the last 24 hours, Dumfries can be a pretty wild place weather-wise.

One winter we were mid-way through a block of cross country running. However, on this particular morning the fields were covered in around 8 inches of snow.

We assumed that we'd be playing indoor footie instead. Lovely and warm. Not freezing our wee bollocks out in the cold.

Oh no. Our PE teacher, safely wrapped up in his office, accompanied by an electric bar heater on full blast and a constant supply of coffee and biscuits, sent us out to see what it was like.

"Come on lads, a quick lap round the hockey pitches, and let's see how you get on."

"Come on Sir! You must be joking!"

"Go on lads, then we'll maybe get you inside for some footie or something".

Spurred on by this, we tried our best, despite the appalling conditions, to get round the pitches. We got round as quickly as we could, thinking that the quicker we got round, the quicker we'd be inside getting warm. By the time we finished we were red raw with the cold. The snow was up to our knees in places, and we were out in t-shirts and shorts.

"Well done lads, that wasn't too bad at all. Let's have another lap then, eh?"

He then proceeded to do it again. And again. For the whole period.

The fucker.
(Reverend Fister "a disciplined fuckwit", Fri 20 Nov 2009, 10:50, Reply)

I never did P.E. as such...
My friend and I got a pass from P.E. once to help a teacher rebuild some racking in the English department book store.

We managed to string it out for the remaining 4 years in senior school. We ended up marking registers, multiple choice questions, sleeping, in fact anything other than having to do P.E.

It didn't bother me, as I had been doing karate since 8, and was going to evening classes at least twice a week, one of them in the school hall.

One young P.E. teacher wasn't quite so happy with the arrangement, and used to give us "The Hard Stare" whenever we walked past during break.

Unfortunately for him, he happened to wander into one of my karate lessongs, walking up the side of the hall like he owned the place. He saw me and gave his customary hard stare. Mid-frown, my instructor (Grand) Master Loke shouted "You: Stop!". He may have been only 5'5", but his presence and authority knew no bounds. He then tore a strip of the teacher for entering his class, and made him do the walk of shame back the way he'd come.

Funnily enough he wasn't looking so hard on the return trip, and I may have even managed a little smile at him.
(Kliper Filllets Getting noticed by twats on the internet since, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 10:47, Reply)

Tenuous, but worth it in the end
I come from a fairly large family (6 kids). There’s an average of 2 years between each of us. This means that when I went to high school, I still had 2 brothers there (one 3 years older – D, and one 5 years older, M), and 2 sisters in the Girls school down the road.

This could be either a help, or a hindrance. I was never particularly worried about bullying, as my brothers did a fine job on their own. Nothing particularly malicious, just standard brother stuff, like kidnapping me from the middle of a group of lads I was supposed to be showing round (they returned me 30 seconds later), or tying my laces together and making me carry a tray. I now look back and find them utterly hilarious, but pretty embarrassing at the time.

However, while they enjoyed teasing me, they never let any of the older lads cause me trouble. There were a few who seemed to delight in doing this. One was 5 years older, what a prick.

Anyway, the main lad who gave me shit was 2 years older than me, and he was a cunt. Sadly, his Dad was one of the school’s P.E. teachers, so he was also untouchable. If it came to your word versus his, you’d lose every time. This led to multiple bollockings, for me and my brothers. He once said that I’d attacked him for no good reason, so he’d pushed me down and ran away. The fact that I then walked into the office with a split lip, a bleeding nose, and several obvious shoe marks on my shirt, I still got the detention. He was a cunt.

The rugby teacher in question was famous once upon a time; he played rugby for Scotland at one point. He was also about 6’7”, and had a major problem with anyone who didn’t play for the first XI in any year. He also referred to anyone who wasn’t amazing at sports by only their last name. This was subtle bullying, but it was cuntish nonetheless. One lesson you’d hear ‘Cracking try Agnostic’, and the next week it’d be ‘You’ve got to try harder Antichrist’. The other lads picked up on this, and would just ignore you while you were getting changed afterwards. I suppose he viewed this as character building, we just hated it.

Anyway, one lesson the rugby ball we were using had popped, and all others were in use. So he let us play football, but once again made us take it incredibly seriously. However, I was glad for one reason only. He taught me how to slide tackle properly. I’d always ended up injuring myself prior to this. He then said something that sticks with me to this day – ‘If you’re going to tackle someone, do it properly!’

About a week later, it was lunchtime, and as usual, I was playing football with my brothers. I’d just passed the ball, and was waiting for a pass back, when all of a sudden I get elbowed in the back of the head, and flattened, twatting my nose on the tennis court floor. It was the aforementioned knobhead teacher’s kid. I was face down, so I didn’t see what happened, so all I heard was a slapping sound, as the ball - which M had volleyed from all of about 10 feet – hit the cunt straight into his face. Now to anyone who has ever played with a flyaway football on a cold day, you know how much this hurts. The ball basically wrapped around his face, it was genius. 30 seconds later M is being shouted off the court, as all any teacher saw was the ball being volleyed.

The cunt then goes back to his mates, and 5 minutes later, proceeds to kick the ball straight into my back from about 2 feet. Once again, this really stings. He hadn’t counted on D walking over and giving him a cracking dig in the stomach. The kind where you end up foetal as you try desperately to regain your breath. 30 seconds later D is being shouted off the court, as once again, the teacher had only seen the second incident.

Now I’m a little worried, as I have a very pissed off lad who is after my blood, and is now certain that he can ‘get’ me without fear of reproach. I’m now basically waiting for him to kick off. This happens within 5 minutes, as he decides to take the ball off me, and start to run off with it at his feet, before lamping it over the fence (which required a 5 minute run to get back), and laughing. At this point, I saw red, ran over, and executed the perfect sliding challenge, straight through his shins (don’t do this on tennis courts kids, it hurts). He’s lying on the floor, screaming as if I’ve broken his leg or summat. I shit myself, and hear my name shouted, as I am escorted to the office. I get to the office, and end up sat next to my brothers, to whom I whisper my story. They’re a little skeptical, until his is helped past on his way to the sick room, at which point many grins are exchanged.

The headmaster comes back after his lunch, looks at the note left for him, and just says “Antichrist, come in please” as he turns. As all 3 of us stood up, you could just see his brain whirring in a ‘hang on, this isn’t right’ sort of way. He calls in M first, 5 minutes later he calls in D, then I’m called in. So we’re all sat in front of the headmaster, an unnerving experience if ever there was one. We all clarify our stories, and the headmaster agrees that while they match, that’s no excuse for what happened. We were each to get an after school detention, all to be served at the same time. He then smiled at us, and said “And please lads, stop crippling the other kids, it’s not good for the school”, and dismissed us.

We walked downstairs, and out into freedom! (OK, so we just headed back to our lessons, but you get my point).

Then the major problem hit. I hadn’t quite thought this one through. My next lesson was a double. With the lad I’d just crippled’s Dad. Oh fuck.

As soon as I get to the pavilion I hear “AGNOSTIC! COME HERE!”, and wander into his office for the inevitable bollocking. He then proceeds to kick off at me, saying how disgusting it was that my brothers and I had launched an ‘unprovoked’ attack on his son! My response was “But Sir, I was only following instructions!” He glared at me, and asked me to clarify. “Sir, you told me that if I was going to tackle someone, do it properly!” Another after school detention Sir? Ok then.

Still worth it for the scream he gave.

Length? Another 7 months before I left that school.
( Agnostic Antichrist Baltimora, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 10:40, Reply)

To perpetuate a theme
My secondary school PE teacher was a cunt. He alwys used to strut about in his 80s-style trackie-bottoms that were way too tight, designed to show of his packet. It must have worked, cos he ended up shagging & then marrying (i'm assuming that was the order of events) the fit new French teacher.

I don't know if it was me he picked on cos I was better than him at cricket (even at 14), but he was forever niggling, so much that one day during a game of basket ball I snapped & punched him in the stomach.

To be fair to him, he took it & just kept on nipping at my heels for the rest of the game rather than meting out punsihment.

But the cunt had to rob of my moment of crowning glory in PE lessons. We weren't much of a rugby playing school (football 52 weeks of the year if democracy had ruled), so on this rare occasion we formed two teams, cuntpipe-chops on the other side.

The ball emerged from one of those pile-up things that occur, the lad in front of me turned round & passed it directly backwards to me. I knew enough about this strange game to start running with the ball. Things opened up before me. I strode ever more urgently towards minor-PE glory. Then out of the corner of my eye I saw Michael bearing down on me. Michael was a big lad, he played rugby for the school team & a club and everything. He was hard enough to get a really badly gashed knee & not cry. He could twat me into next week. But the line was close. Close enough if I could just....

The dive was what cliched it guv. The ball was duly grounded. My momentum took me forward, sliding along the ground & through a huge pile of dogshit, the remnants starting at the bottom of my right sleeve & ending at the top. I cared not one jot, I had scored.

Until that bearded twat with the prominent trackie-bulge declared "Scrum-down half way, forward pass".

And I was denied revenge when the teachers wimped out of the staff-student cricket game, that cunt was getting some chin music.

I hope his next shite was a hedgehog.
(Worthless wishes he had the brains of a pigeon, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 10:36, Reply)

not PE as such but PE teachers
a year or so after I had left school. I heard that some Gypsie / travellers / pikeys had setup camp on the school playing fields. not sure how long they had been there or any of the details, but aparantly the PE teachers (Binns and Pride/Pryde) both big chaps went and gave them a good shoeing encouraging them to vacate the school grounds. fair play to them! they were both good blokes.
(wireless_tommer, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 10:36, Reply)

Like most b3tans I avoided as much sport as I could at school.
But I don't recall ever having the rules of any game explained as it was assumed everyone knew them.
Which is probably why I found the whole thing pointless.

Is there any explanation of rules these days in PE lessons?
What are all the white/blue/green/red lines on the gym floor for?
( Larry Vest One day at a time, sweet Jesus, FFS., Fri 20 Nov 2009, 10:31, 2 replies)

My PE report
in fact everyone's PE report one term was exactly the same. And had been filled in by a PE teacher that had never taught us, he taught another set. I don't know why we even bothered (yes I do, cos sport was fun and PE was the best lesson of the week! Well that and RE where we just got to sit there, listen to music and have a chat while our teacher sat at the front reading a book)
(wehttamman via B3ta for microwave, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 10:20, Reply)

Cross CoUNTry Running. 11 year olds:1 PE teachers: Nil.
Going to a school at the edge of the Pennines, surrounded by mile upon mile of undulating fields gave our PE teachers so many possibilities when it came to routes for our Cross Country running.

But as you can confuse a PE teacher by asking them the time ours chose the route to be 5 or 6 laps of the cricket & hockey pitch.

Every time.

At the furthest distance (probably 600 meters away) from where the teachers were overseeing the events (i.e chatting up the female PE teachers) was one of the hockey nets. Our Hockey nets had a 2 ft wooden back and side to catch the ball. It's impressive how many kids you can hide, lying down behind those nets.

To this day I can never understand how they didn't notice that although 40 kids started the race only 10 kids at any one time were actually running round until the final lap.

Idiots.
( Airman Gabber Living life like a 70's BBC presenter, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 10:16, Reply)

Post-PE showers......
It's just too painful a memory, I have even blocked out the teachers name.

I was at school about 15 years ago, and I think that my school was one of the last in the Slough area of the 'old school' type, where each morning at assembly, the teachers would all don their gowns, and the headmaster on certain occasions would even wear one of those wig things!

But I digress,,,

This leads me to the PE lessons, and skipping over the 'PE in your pants' nightmares that I am sure already cover this QotW, the painful part was the showers afterwards.

Showering was mandatory, there was no avoiding it, and the boys PE teacher would make sure you all went into the showers by standing at the entrance to them, and making sure that no one left the changing rooms without showering. All is well here so far right!...

Standing at the entrance to the showers was slightly odd anyway, but ensuring that he slapped the arse of every boy that went in was the painful memory. He was an old bastard as well, old and slimy! If ever you managed to avoid him on the way in, he would always spot you coming out and slap your arse then!

6 years we had to go through this...6 bloody years!

Never found out if anything ever got done about it. It was just considered acceptable apparently!
( Pixieelf got his 1st front pg. when MJ died! Double Whammy!, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 10:13, Reply)

A wee pearoast to start....
2nd year PE.....

We were playing rugby.

A large, speccy, nerdy type received a pass. He spotted a gap amid the throng of juvenile bodies, and hit the accelerator. This was going to be his big moment - a try of all things! He was no longer going to be a nerd, but a sporting legend!

Strangely his opponents appeared somewhat reticent in tackling him, and he ploughed on towards the try line.

What he had failed to realise was that his cock had flopped out of his shorts as he bombed towards the aghast defensive line, scaring the bejesus out of all before him. No wonder no one attempted to 'tackle' him.
(Reverend Fister "a disciplined fuckwit", Fri 20 Nov 2009, 10:13, 7 replies)