I loved PE, especially in the winter
mainly because I always forgot my rugby/football kit.

Obviously I couldn't be unsupervised, so I had to sit in the warm, dry gym with the girls class. While they did trampolining.
( lo, the Greebo Warrior - Est. 2002, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 14:17, 7 replies)

Who remembers the bleep test
It involved running up and down the gym to a series of beeps (every beep would be .1 then 10 equals a new level) and if you didn't make it you were out and everyone would know how shit you were.

In my class we had 15 out of the 19 get over the 10 barrier than all but one (me included) precedid to throw up all over the floor all to prove we could run further than the fat kids
(NuffMuff fucks shrubbery, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 14:14, 2 replies)

Rugby 101
At junior school I was in the '6th Game'. For reference, the '1st Game' was all the proper sporty types who played against other schools and shit. The '2nd Game' was a slight drop down - they played other schools too, but not at such a high level. And so the list dropped, right down to us in the '6th Game'. We had no other schools to play against (though once we lost to the local girls school in a volleyball match) and we were assigned the worst, non-sporting, couldn't-give-a-shit teachers to watch over our games sessions.

The 6th Game at HF Prep was quality through and through. We had the wets, the weeds, the fatties, the asthmatics, the Japanese, the Indians, the special needs and the 'differently abled'. None of whom had any desire to be anywhere near a playing field on a cold, drizzly Weds afternoon.

The game was rugby. The teacher was Mr Pullen, the science master. Pullen was a legend. He had a shock of red hair and an equally red beard - both of which he left to their own devices, creating the mad-scientist look he was probably aiming for. He was famous for careering down corridors, heaving kids out of the way shouting, 'COME ON YOU PEOPLE!' at the top of his voice. Nutter. Probably wouldn't be allowed near children in this day and age.

His science classes were legendary too. He used to leave the chemistry cabinet open – cue me and many others leaving school with ribbons of magnesium and bottles of mercury, leading to burnt retinas and a probably cancerous later life.

But anyhoo...back the question. The game was rugby. Mr Pullen had never played rugby before. He actually turned up to the pitch with a huge booked entitled 'The Rules of Rugby'. He got us to jog round the pitch, then called us to the touchline and started to explain the rules. He could barely be heard above the wheezing, retching, feeble mass of bodies that was the 6th Game. He explained kicking. He explained tries. And then he explained tackling.

A volunteer was needed. Pullen pointed at Rapinder Sood, the skinniest, bow-legged, tiniest - but still only moustachioed boy in the school.

We noticed the Head had wandered to the games fields with a couple of prospective parents in tow. They paused to take in our lesson.

'You boy!' Pullen shouted. 'I've got the ball, I'm going to jog over there, I want to tackle me, below the knees and retrieve the ball. Got it?'

'Yes Sir.' mumbled Rapinder.

Pullen jogged off slowly. Rapinder followed behind even slower.

'Now boy. Now!' screamed Pullen.

Rapinder caught up with the teacher. He made an effort of diving for Mr Pullen's legs but missed any real connection. But he succeeded in just catching his ankles...and he held on for dear life.

Mr Pullen continued to jog on. Rapinder continued to grasp his ankles. There was no way Rapinder was ever going to bring the teacher down. But something else did come down.

Rapinder's doggedness in hanging on to Mr Pullen's ankles made sure that the teacher's tracksuit bottoms were pulled all the way down.

Mr Pullen was not wearing shorts under his tracksuit. Mr Pullen was not wearing pants under his tracksuit. Mr Pullen was wearing fuck all under his tracksuit.

And there he stood, for a split-second that will be held for all eternity, stark bollock naked from the waist down, a shock of ginger pubes surrounding a not inconsiderable cock and balls.

The 6th Game were rewarded that day. So what if we never knew the joys of winning a game in the last minute. So what if we never felt the surge of victory as we vanquished our opponents. So what if none of us have been near a ball or a blade of grass for the last 20 years. So what. Because we can tell the world with clarity and conviction about the day Rapinder Sood de-bagged Mr Pullen on the rugby pitch, in full view of the Headmaster, some parents and every member of now legendary 6th Game.
( Albert Marshmallow is a completely irredeemable cunt, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 14:05, 1 reply)

He made SURE we all had a shower
PE Teacher: "Staurt, do you usually wear your boxer shorts in the shower at home?"
Stuart: "No, but I don't usually have a big poof watching over me."

Scary, but true.
(BourbonBiscuits2, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 13:52, 1 reply)

What house are you in, girl?
Back when I was at boarding school, we had the most heinous uniform. When they introduced girls in the early 1990s, the headmaster's wife, in charge of designing the uniforms, obviously decided to go for something so shapeless and ugly that the raging libidos of all the adolescent boys would be quenched for ever and that they would therefore not be distracted from their studies by the sudden influx of GURLS.

However, this policy was not applied to the sports uniforms. A short blue skirt, worn year-round (whatever the weather), matching knee-high socks, a white polo-shirt... all fairly standard, barely-legal dresscode stuff. And sports knickers. Dear lord, the knickers. Designed so that if our skirts flew up then people could not see our actual knickers, these were the same colour of the skirt, but had a coloured stripe up each side, determined by which house one was in. My house had a red stripe, another a yellow one, the third a green one.

A group of girls were walking back from netball to their various houses one day, and decided to take a shortcut over the chapel lawns - this was strictly verboten, as chapel-lawn-walking rights were restricted to teachers and prefects. Sadly, the girls were caught by one of the history teachers, a particularly sweaty and abhorrent old pillock. Said teacher spied the girls, licked his lips, hitched up his saggy old cords, and bellowed "RIGHT! YOU GIRLS, COME HERE AT ONCE!" Terrified, they did so, each trying to hide behind each other. "WHAT HOUSE ARE YOU ALL IN? COME ON, ANSWER ME?" They all blurted out the names of their various houses, which confused him no end. He couldn't tell if they were genuinely all in different houses, or they were trying to confuse him. There was only one way that he could learn the truth. "RIGHT! PULL UP YOUR SKIRTS!" He made them all lift up their skirts so he could peer (closely, of course) at the coloured stripes on each of their pairs of sports knickers. Satisfied (in more ways than one), he told them off, sent them on their way, and then probably wanked himself into a sticky coma once he got home.

EDIT: this was an apocryphal tale told to new girls when they arrived at the school. Might have really happened (the teacher in question real), might have been made up by prefects keen to keep Chapel Lawn "theirs".
(The Empress it seems you CAN polish a turd!, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 13:42, 3 replies)

One PE Sports day
Cue the angry PE teacher shouting at kids because we couldn't do the high jump properly. After various failings the teach freaks out after one large kid just ran into the pole, no attempt made to jump at all.

Teach sprints at it, veins popping out of his skull as he launches himself over the now replaced bar.

"THAT'S HOW IT'S DONE!" he screams.

The large kid simply replied "I wish I was as good as you thought you were...."

"GET THE HELL OUTTA HERE!!!!!!!" pointing back to the changing rooms, where the large kid smiles and wanders off to. We genuinely thought the teach was going to have an aneurysm.
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 13:36, 1 reply)

My PE teacher was called Mr.Shirn

Know to all and sundry as Eric
( Naked Ape call me Caitlyn, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 13:35, 1 reply)

Are you serious?
Me? PE?

And muddy my cape and ruffle?

I think not.
(Tugnut Ex of this parish, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 13:35, Reply)

Touch Rugby
One of the many tortures devised to keep the lads fit was touch rugby during PE which saw the less fit chaps keeping a careful shuffle that saw them on the side of the field opposite to that of the ball. Either that or receive a "tap" from the silverbacks that had you sprawling in mud.

One particularly pathetic specimen, a widely despised little scholastic overachiever, somehow ended up with a wayward ball and decided to make a dash for the open tryline. A hulking brute came sprinting towards him, but the intrepid nerd sucessfully dummied the rugby player and scored a try.

The rugby player received a near endless amount of mocking from his fellow apes, and he took out the frustration on the hapless brain who'd humiliated him.

It escalated and escalated until one day, in class, Jock turned round to aim a quick slap at Nerd, whose nerves were frayed beyond reason at this point. After completing the slap, Jock put his hand triumphantly on the desk, where it was stabbed, full force, by Nerd's pencil.

The teacher, a sensitive homosexual man not blind to the dynamics of the situation, said to Jock as he was led whimpering to sickbay, "ja, that's what you get."
(Ladyfingers is in your wardrobe,, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 13:30, Reply)

At our School, PE teachers had an additional role.
Well, one of them did at least.

When it came to that time of our school lives to proceed with sex education, she proceeded to stand in front a room filled with thirty 15 year boys and tell us that masturbation is normal and describe how she, when our age, got herself off by frantically fucking the arm of her parents couch. The thrusting action combined with the story really didn't help matters or her reputation.
( Muns, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 13:29, 2 replies)

New football boots!!!
At PE time I rushed into the changing rooms, got changed laced up my brand new boots and ran proudly out onto the pitch I got all the way to that big circle in the middle before I realised I'd forgot to put my shorts on...

Never really been into sport.

My Dad told me that if you're playing football and you stand still for long enough eventually the ball will come to you.

Sound advice.
(cidercomic hasn't finished it yet..., Fri 20 Nov 2009, 13:11, Reply)

Wee boy
With the conclusion of each year came the pis de resistance in the schools p.e calendar - the House Football Competition. Always an eventful occasion, I was in sixth form and was house captain when it happened.

Assembling a team of adequate footballers from a limited choice of un co-ordinated, uninterested, useless misfits was always an issue and most of the teams couldnt string 2 passes together if their sorry, sad, lonely lives depended on it. No more was this type of character epitomised than by Sam, 16 years old, a trainee referee, walked only on his toes so he bounced along like an epileptic kangaroo and loved nothing more than to make inappropriate comments that nobody was interested in.

On that fateful winters day, the wind howling across the hollowed turf of the school fields sam was playing in goal for his house who had unbelievably made it to the final. All at once, attention turned away from the game and towards Sam who was shifting uncomfortably in goal as a yellow trickle ran down his leg. His skin-tight rugby shorts couldnt hide the shame as 21 players and another 50 or so spectators pointed and laughed.

From that day forward, no amount of excuses (including "i had a carton of Um Bungo in my pocket) could alter the fact that he had pissed himself in plain daylight in a highly public situation.

It's not very creative but in someway, I dont think anything else could have been more derogative - Wee Boy was born.
(Eggstrovert isnt patronising you...honest..., Fri 20 Nov 2009, 13:00, Reply)

Swimming Trunks
I know I shouldn't just repost old stories, but I promise I'll only do it once this week:
***************************************************************
There is, in every litter, a runt. A child, weaker than the rest, who is picked on, in a tribal, bullying fashion driven by the insecurities and ignorance of the other children.

No, for once, this one isn't about me. This was the unfortunate child in the same class as me, and it's a shame this had to happen to him.

For summertime at our primary school meant swimming lessons. Our school was not a fancy or particularly well-served one, but somehow, by god-only-knows-what-means, they had their own swimming pool.

I say "swimming pool." It was a lined box that contained chlorinated water. Which was ok if the weather was warm and you were small. (Admittedly I was a fast grower, but by the time I was in year 3 or 4 I'm sure if I stood up the water barely covered my nipples.) So by "swimming pool," I mean "glorified puddle."

Of course, the crazy, evangelical teachers thought this was by far and away the school's greatest asset, and every fund-raising event the school held seemed to be geared towards raising money for the upkeep of The Puddle.

Oh yes: it was outdoors.

And so, as Spring began to yield to Summer, and the sun peered tentatively out from the heavy veil of bland stratus clouds, they decided it was time to get the kids back into The Puddle.

And fuck me, it was cold. I swear my balls should have dropped twice as far as they eventually did, but were inhibited by this early exposure to such glacial water.

So one day, as I stood, waste-deep in this water, the teacher supervising us called out:
"Whose swimming trunks are these?"
And she held aloft a dripping wet pair of speedos.

All the children, naturally, checked themselves and made sure they still had their tender bits covered from everything except the bitter, unrelenting chill of the water.

The trunks were forgotten about. Until the teacher decided it was time for the kids to get out of The Puddle.

And as the runt of the litter climbed the rusty ladder out of the pool, he suddenly realised that the teacher had been holding aloft his trunks.

He was half-way up a ladder, dripping wet and stark naked in front of the whole class.

Children are cruel. They know not what they do. They laughed. He yelped. In spite of all the warmth having been removed from his skin, his cheeks went bright pink. (Both pairs.)

Poor bugger...
(LongJohnBaldry, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 12:59, Reply)

Swimming at age Six
At the ages of two and three, I had two very near drowning experiences that have kept me leery of swimming thirty years on.

My parents, in order to cure me of the terror, bought me a life jacket and held me screaming in our tiny backyard pool to get me over the phobia. It didn't really work.

Then came school. First, the terror of punishment by caning. Second, the terror of weekly swimming lessons in the world's coldest pool led by Mizz Aurik, a defected East German Olympic coach (I swear).

The sound of the sprinklers ticking an ominous countdown as we made our way across the fields.

The changing rooms made of those open bricks showing your tiny genitals to the world at large, a chill breeze blowing over a pool that only got sun half the day.

The Teutonic shriek: "get eeeen ze vater!"

The testicles retreating into the abdomen as your body hit the water.

The chlorine stinging your teary eyes as der Damenführer put her foot on your head to force you to breathe out underwater through your streaming nose while you practised kicking against the walls.

I was sick nearly every Thursday, as my mother just couldn't take the howling.

We had her for the first four years of school, and I was a near-permanent wreck. In my final year of junior school, I developed a fondness for simply floating on my back and kicking, as I'd plunge underwater if I swung my arms. I entered the school gala for the "backstroke" with the worst swimmers and naturally lost miserably, but the old battleaxe, bless her iron heart, came up and shook my hand, telling me how proud she was of me. Very touching.

I'm so fucking glad I'm not a child any more.
(Ladyfingers is in your wardrobe,, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 12:59, Reply)

I used to so enjoy stripping down to my tiny whities and swinging on the monkey bar when I was a kid...

although some people might think it odd that the P.E teacher named his cock 'Monkey Bar'...
(Mr Twisty Cheeky The worst kept secret in B3ta..., Fri 20 Nov 2009, 12:58, Reply)

Mr Faires
To be absolutely fair, most of our PE teachers didn't quite conform to the stereotype, having an IQ of at least 70 (not collectively), but poor Mr Faires just didn't really belong in the human race. Evolution had clearly had a pop at it, but given him up as a bad job. Stuck somewhere between human and ape, you could almost hear the cogs turning as he tried to process simple sentence structure, and cruelly, we would taunt him like a retarded gorilla being stoned at a zoo. On one occasion, as his mental frustration peaked, flailing his elongated arms, he desperately splurged out this prime piece of primate prattle, 'Lads.. on a scale of 1 to 10.. shut up!'
( SigmaX0 Dear Die Hard. You rock!, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 12:52, Reply)

A friend of mine
got a raging boner whilst looking at a 14 year old girl in her gym kit.
We were 14 so it wasn't excactly a crime but it was made a hell of a lot more funnier when out teacher notcied his engored self love tool and ordered him to stand infront of the class and demonstrate how to swing a tennis racket properly
(NuffMuff fucks shrubbery, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 12:47, Reply)

Showers
At my junior school, we had to take showers after PE and Games (why it was given a different name just because it was usually outside is beyond me). Anyway, after the lesson everyone would strip off and make for the big communal showers. Whoever was first would be the one who turned the showers on. Now, the feed pipes came out of the floor, through two inspection valves and then ran parallel up the wall to the taps.
One would have to stand on the inspection valves and reach up for the tap, which were usually quite tough to turn, and took about 5 revolutions to open fully.

One kid, who was far more developed than the rest of us 13 year olds was first to the showers one day. He climbed onto the inspection valves, reached up and started opening the valve. Being 13, the brain tends to think "He's naked, sex must be imminent, he needs a lob on."
So that's what happened and it started to ease itself between the pipes, though he hadn't noticed because he's busy cranking the tap round and round. Just as the showers finally come one, he realised his cock was wedged inbetween two pipes which were getting very hot.

He gave a surprisingly girlie scream for someone whose voice had broken a good two years previous and leapt back, dragging his member from between the pipes, which had managed to get quite a firm grip, and fell to the floor.

You wouldn't believe how funny it is to 28 thirteen year olds to see one of their classmates burning his cock on a hot pipe. And it's even funnier when the PE teacher comes around the corner to see what all the racket was about to find a kid writhing around on the floor, clutching his stiffy and groaning.

The icing on the cake was when the teacher barked at him "If you must do that, then at least wait until you're in your own shower at home!"

"There's that kid who tossed off in the shower" and "shower wanker" were common phrases heard about school for at least a term and a half.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 12:46, 1 reply)

On the one hand.......
There was one lad in our class who had been in an accident as a kid and as a result had to have his arm amputated from just below the elbow. This lad was very sporty and particularly talented at football and played for the school team. He was an all round good egg, so to speak.

One day we were doing gymnastics, or as I liked gymnasties. All is going along until the particularly sadistic teacher stops the class, singles this lad out and asks him why he isn’t doing cartwheels or handstands?

We got changed early that day and that teacher left at the end of term.
(Free pens 100, 101, 102 is still counting on, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 12:45, Reply)

Just came back to me...
Shirts and skins.

Why? For fuck's sake.
(Captain Kenneth 's Greatest Hits on sale now, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 12:37, Reply)

I loved P.E.
I did - as a blossoming Chubby Chaser, the chance to get landed on by the chunky lads was a gift from the gods!
(3_on_a_meathook has room for one more., Fri 20 Nov 2009, 12:37, 1 reply)

seasonal misery
cricket in the summer, rugby in the winter, no alternatives.

If the permafrost in the rugby pitch could be dented by the PE teacher stamping his studs then it was soft enough to play on, as the winter wind raced straight through my skinny frame and i tried to avoid the gorillas who had reached 6ft by age 14 pounding me into the ground.

I got my own back in cricket by wildly hurling a ball down the pitch?, missing the wickets and cracking the PE teacher square on the shin, bald cunt, serves him right, i was made to field forever after that.

I was overjoyed when finally able to take cross country running and we could jog/walk out into the gloucestershire countryside for an hour or so, peaceful it was.

competitive team sports can fuck right off, some of us are terminally antisocial

(quite liked rope climbing though due to my monkey like abilities and weighing about 5 stone wringing wet)
(amazinglasercow now sporting terawatt mining lasers, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 12:26, 1 reply)

Bless you, Mister Parsons.
I was hopelessly unathletic, and a near drowner in the water, and so for summer of my first year of high school I decided to do something about it and took extra swimming lessons as a weekly elective. Seemed pleasant enough, a half hour of paddling about with my fellow palsied anchormen.

It turned out to be fairly hard bloody work, and then after lunch break I got straight back in the icy, mountainside pool for PE. My skinny legs were cramping and I was sinking, but my little gesture paid off: Mister Parsons was touched by my efforts (he told my folks) and so I was granted near total lenience for the rest of my high school career.

A case in point. Indoor PE was generally a bunch of games with the class divided into teams small enough for the hall, and I would climb up those weird exercise bars (never used) and sit on the window sills, sometimes with a book. Teams would change, but I'd hang onto my peaceful spot in the afternoon sun. One day, Mister Parsons looked up at me and asked "which team are you actually on?"

"No idea, sir."

"Okay."

What a good sport.
(Ladyfingers is in your wardrobe,, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 12:23, Reply)

Go, Newton house. Woo.
The local comprehensive I went to tried to instill us with some pride in the school by getting us to compete with the former grammar school down the road. Only that was the school everyone applied for and ours was the school that people went to because they didn't get in. So they always won. At everything.

As a result, and in a lesson I learnt well for future life, our school stopped trying to compete and ignored the other school completely.

All sporting and academic competitions would now be held internally and each year group would be split into different "houses". Now most schools have had this sort of set up for years, ours was new to it so true to form; they did it all wrong.
The four new "houses" ended up being predominantly two teams of girls and two teams of boys, each team then split into the "normal kids" and the "spazzers".

It was clinically split too, there was no mistaking it, someone had clearly sat down, researched and carried out some kind of creepy gender and physical ability based ethnic cleansing on each year.

Only they'd cocked that up too. I, the incredibly talented Dervel of school football, cross country and basketball team fame was in the boys dribbler house!

I was clearly in the wrong team. You could tell that by the trainers alone! I had my peer group approved Nike Air Pegasus on and everyone else in my house had on Nicks and Pony. I didn't even have any of my packed lunch on my t-shirt for Christ's sake! Of all the errors to make this one was up there with Suffolk.

I pointed out this obvious oversight and I was snubbed. I argued my case and I was dismissed. I had a wobbly and I was ignored. I even went so far as to tell my mum. Nothing.

So I was doomed to PE and sports day with Newton house, in their green shirts of disappointment and misery.

This was physical education for the so vastly incapable that the rules of popular sports were rewritten.
In basketball you now got points for not just getting the ball through the hoop, but for merely hitting the backboard.
Points for a try in rugby? How unfair! Getting points for three consecutive passes seems far more fitting a reward for your effort.
Shot put? Well that just seems a bit unnecessary doesn’t it? Here try it with this cricket ball. After all you wont be needing that for playing cricket now will you, you can play cricket indoors with this sponge ball and plastic wicket on springs.

Thanks a bunch Mr. Williams you bearded twunt.
( Dervel OTBC, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 12:21, 1 reply)

My friend George...
My friend George at Primary School was so shy, he'd go to any lengths to avoid drawing attention to himself. Unfortunately for him, it didn't always work out. Like the time his mum had forgotten to give him his gym kit, so he queued up for gym naked.

He also once tried so hard to hold in a fart during assembly, that it actually whistled out. Everyone turned round to see him sat there, cross legged, grimacing like a Buddha with haemorrhoids, whilst emitting a noise like a boiled kettle.
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 12:17, 5 replies)

PErversion.
The rather elderly, yet still hard as iron, head of PE at my school was renowned for his advice and wisdom on growing up and being a man. Such gems included:

PE Teacher, standing hands on hips, groin thrust forward: "Boys there's no better feeling than when you come inside your wife"
Class of 14 year olds: "Erm..."

PE Teacher, hands moving salaciously and expressively: "Now that you're getting older, and things are growing, you'll want to stand in front of a mirror and just let it all swing out."
Class of 15 year olds: "Erm..."

PE Teacher, slight drool at one corner of his mouth: "Jenkins, was that you I saw trying to finger some girl in the park last weekend? Good work boy."
Jenkins: "Erm..."

PE Teacher, hand worryingly in pocket, 'playing with his keys': "Roberts, you are a horrible little bastard, but your mother is a doll."
Roberts: "Sir! That's my mother!"
PE Teacher: "To think you crawled out of that..."

True story.
(Zapiola zip-zap-zop, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 12:14, 3 replies)

There are going to be lots of stories about PE Teachers suspected, or even convicted of, kiddie-fiddling
And whilst I don't think a certain PE teacher was actually "wun uv dem fuckin peedos" one can read about so often in the Daily Express and other such reputable publications, he certainly had the makings of one.

To be fair, it's not the guy's fault that he had a big, hooked nose and was going bald. Nevertheless, he did himself no favours by keeping a ring of hair around the side of his head and, I suspect, polishing the bald pate on top (a truly magnificent shine, as evinced when one lad shone a laser pointer at it...)

He just had a habit of digging himself into a hole (fnar fnar, snigger snigger). He was a stickler for "correct kit" - my school was fairly liberal-minded, but the PE teachers did insist on such stupid things as wearing the long, red socks for outdoor stuff and the shorter, white socks for indoor things. He was, however, one of the few that was sufficiently anal to tell you to go and change if, god forbid, you turned up for an indoor PE lesson in your red socks.

By the age of about 15, most of the girls in the school were becoming objectionable, bitchy and many other traits which can frequently be found in the most delightful chavs they were probably going to turn into, in preparation for a lifetime of chain-smoking their child benefits away in front of Trisha. It was not unusual for them to just answer back and flatly refuse to follow instructions (usually grounded in some fairly serious transgression of the "rights" they were fairly sure they had, or possibly the "respeck" they were so totally due...)

Hence the following altercation between one proto-chav (PCh hereafter) and Pseudo-Paedo PE Teacher (PPPET)
PPPET: "Oi, you've got the wrong colour socks on."
PCh: "Uh?"*
PPPET: "You've got red socks on, you should be wearing white. Go and change them"
PCh: "It's just my socks."
PPPET: "You wear white socks indoors, no go and take them off."
PCh: "Tchuh**, why?"
PPPET: "Them's the rules. Now go and change your socks."
PCh: "No."
PPPET: "Don't talk to me like that! Get into the changing room and get your kit off!"
The room sniggers silently at the tremendously witty double-entendre that has just popped up.
PCh: "No, it's just my socks."
PPPET: "Right, I'm writing a note to the Head..." gets out pen and notebook "...refusal to remove kit..."

And a year later he dropped a similar clanger at some sports awards thing we had to sit through, whilst the PE department slobbered praise over the students who were fast or agile or bendy enough to be good at something PE-related. In the middle of his summary of the school's sporting achievements, he told us of one student who'd been in a dance competition and "gave a series of dance performances which were a pleasure to watch."

Given his reputation, not the most careful choice of words. After I left, I heard rumours that he'd been asked to resign from his post after he was caught dating a 14-year old girl. This one remains unsubstantiated, and I suspect it's just urban myth, but I can kind of imagine him doing it...

Whoops, sorry, this is quite a long one. Fnar. Probably longer than his.

*_{The actual phonetics of the Neanderthal grunt elicited are difficult to accurately reproduce and may vary with interpretation.}
**_Ditto
(LongJohnBaldry, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 12:09, Reply)

Chop Chop Chop
The Boys Grammar School I attended was a traditional affair, and the Head of Games, Mr S, was an odious little tosser who had obviously studied hard the book of cliches for all PE teachers. He did them all: watching rather too closely as we showered; dishing out random slipperings; standing on cold sports fields addressing pupils whilst rummaging around in the front of his tracksuit bottoms. And then sniffing his fingers. Dirty bastard.

Now this man was obsessed with 2 things (apart from the smell of his own balls), the first being Rugby and the second being Cricket. Nothing else mattered, any other sports were for spineless faggots, heaven forbid anyone mention that soccer was a more skillful game than rugger, he'd explode.

Mr S also had a long-running feud with a lad I shall call Baldy who was the school rebel. He was the one getting arrested for being pissed at the age of 14, getting proper tattoos, bringing flick-knives into school, he was the one pushing the boundaries of acceptable behaviour, the barbarian at the gates. Nowadays it would probably be seen as normal, but back then he was like the Anti-Christ to my old-fashioned Grammar school.

Baldy had several run-ins with Mr S, most notably when he had been sniffing glue and broken into one of the huts, vandalising the classroom. Mr S fancied himself as a detective and brought Baldy to book, having amazingly linked the fact there was glue all over the blackboard to the fact that Baldy had glue all over his blazer and was completely off his tits. Case closed, one nil to Mr S.

The things was, Mr S had a love/hate relationship with him because Baldy was a thug, and thugs are an asset to a school rugger team. Yes, there were the sportsmen, the skillful ones who scored tries, but when it comes to the scrum-down, you need lads in there who can flail away and more importantly, take a few knocks without crying off to Mummy. Baldy was that kind of lad. In the heat of the match you'd hear Mr S bellow from the side-line "Fists!! Fists!! No feet!!" as Baldy got carried away and trampled the opposition. Punching was fine in Mr S' book, but trampling was a sin. As much as it pained Mr S, Baldy had to be in the school's First 11, we needed a hard man in the pack. Hostilities didn't cease, they were scaled back, but Mr S still had to bite back when Baldy was goading him in the corridor, he didn't need his star hooker quitting the rugger team if he bollocked him.

The passage of time has robbed me of the actual date, but one day he'd be walking about in his tracksuit and rugger boots, then the next, as if a switch had been thrown, he'd be in his cricket jumper. That's how you knew what time of the year it was. Nothing to do with clocks going forward, birds nesting, or what it said on the calendar, the division between winter and summer was the day that the white jumper came out. Instantly, just like that.
Of course, once the rugger season ended, open season on Baldy began. Mr S picked him up for every infraction of school rules, and to be fair, there were plenty to choose from, Baldy was a bad kid.


Cricket was Mr S' summer passion, but more than that, the absolute love of his life was his cricket square. To be caught anywhere near the cricket square meant serious trouble, even in winter. If someone told me he clipped the grass with nail-clippers, I'd believe them, he was obsessed with this little strip of grass. He had a supernatural sense of impending tresspass and even when you thought you were safe to retrieve your soccer ball during break, he'd lean out of the staff-room window and bellow at you to get off his fucking square. Detention would follow to ensure you didn't forget the square was Out of Bounds. It was seeded (yeah, exactly what you think I mean, I reckon) and fed, loved and cherished by Mr S. Sometimes he'd even let us play cricket on it, but not the clod-choppers like me, only the best cricketers in the school, and only in non-studded shoes.

One day, as we went into school, a huge crowd had built up around the gates, it seemed that a heinous crime had been committed, a vile personal assault upon Mr S.
Yes, some cunt had climbed the fence in the night and comprehensively chopped the cricket square into pieces. Not only that, some kind of chemical had bleached the yellow outline of a huge spunking cock and balls onto what was left of the grass. Mr S was there, 9am, on his knees in the middle of it all, rocking back and forwards and crying "why?".
No-one dared laugh or shout,this was deadly serious, and there was no way any teachers were going out there to tell him to get a grip. Instead we were herded in through side doors to our classes.
Mr S, meanwhile, once he had composed himself and finished briefing CID, MI5, SAS and the Upper 6th Prefects about the crime, was on the case. He had one suspect in his sights - Baldy.

I recall a lesson where Mr S came in, sent the junior member of staff out and spent the whole period quizzing us on who we thought might be responsible, whilst never making eye contact with Baldy. He cajoled and coaxed us, promising retribution and reward if we just told him who did it. Just one name, that's all he needed. Pieces of paper were handed out for us to write the name down. (Mickey Mouse, Mrs S, the Headmaster, Hugh Janus and Adolf Hitler all were named, but I believe instantly discounted. Maybe Mrs S was quizzed again.)

No other forms were targetted thus, just Baldy's. Of course we didn't tell because we didn't know, no-one knew, even Baldy: we'd asked him. Obviously, Baldy being that kind of chap, if he'd done it, he'd have been boasting about it.

After weeks of spot-checks to see whether any of us had heard whispers or decided to turn the cuplrit in, Mr S ratcheted up the pressure. Baldy spent a whole double period sitting alone opposite Mr S who repeatedly just said one word "Why?"
Still Baldy denied any knowledge, and after other staff intervened about their pupils being frogmarched out of lessons for interrogation, about this blatant victimisation of poor Baldy who was obviously innocent, Mr S grudgingly accepted that someone else was responsible and a tense truce was drawn, the matter dropped. The culprit was never apprehended.







Many years later I met Baldy in the pub, by now a fully mature head-case. We drank and laughed about schoolmates, the old days, life in general. When it was time to leave, him to catch a train back to wherever he now lives, he shouted after me "Oh, by the way, I chopped up that fucking cricket square".
(Rsoles, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 12:08, 4 replies)

Pants and Vest
After forgetting my PE kit, I was made to do it in pants and vest. My tiny, pre-pubescent cock fell out the 'slot' of my boxer shorts.

3 times.
(Monkey the Chicken Twitter: death_stairs, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 12:07, 1 reply)