First day
at a Second Division Public School somewhere in the East Midlands. I was 10, just.

The timetable said: 2pm-4pm: Games.

Whoopee, think I and several other innocent 10-year olds, we get to spend two hours playing on the swings/roundabout/seesaw. So we do; and the next day, and the day after that.

After about two weeks of this the housemaster informed us we were meant to have reported to the rugby pitch on day 1 and they were starting to wonder where we'd got to.
(Guy Debord cette mauvaise réputation..., Fri 20 Nov 2009, 23:45, 1 reply)

Junior School PE - Not a paedo in sight!!
Firstly, I shall relate to an incident in primary school with regards to "PE".
Yours truly has been told that the class of 25 is going to play cricket on the playground. On asphalt.

Yours truly has been asked by the lovely Mrs P to single handedly go and get the cricket wickets.
A simple task - complicated by the fact that these aren't your glorious Ashes level stumps lovingly crafted out of finest English oak. Oh no m'dears, young FComet at the age of 9 is going to get a relic of the 80s - steel, spring-loaded stumps on a baseplate. These are designed so that when a ball hits them they fall back, before springing back up powerfully to be upright once more.

Grasping to lift these [because cor, they were heavy fuckers] and I decide to hold one back so I can get a better grasp elsewhere.

Fatal mistake.

The pole springs right back up at full tilt and collides head on with my forehead - right above my eye. "Ouch", thinks I, "that will be a nasty bruise. If anybody asks, it was a footie accident" *

Young FComet is totally oblivious. The head hurts a little, but hey, there's PE to be played and it's sunny and after school Dad's taking one to McDonalds!

So I'm toddling down the corridor towards the door with the stumps in question until I walk past my sister - Sister Comet waves and walks by before turning back -and running to stop infront of me.Something to the effect of "WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO?" is uttered by her own megaphone mouth - I'm confused. By the impact of the pole or what, we still know not m'dears **

Poles dropped, I'm dragged kicking and screaming to my teacher for first aid. It transpired that I had managed to knock myself a 4-inch and wide cut into my brow from the force of the impact - and the fact that both the blunt side and sharp edge of the top had crash-bombed into my skull. And blood was now everywhere - except where I could see it. Apparently a quarter of my face was caked in red carnage - and I remember one girl screaming to the back of the classroom as I walked in. Score. And I got the rest of the afternoon off :-)

The downside? I was bombed upto hospital by my dad to have a tetanus jab - hurt like fuck it did back then, ouch damnit all. ***

The upside? I got to go to McDonalds right after as the hospital in West Brom was 5 mins from McDs. :D

*I was quite naive and thick back then

**I was, and still a tad thick now. Derp.

***Nowadays injections are nothing, but to a 9yr old, they were hellish.


So that's how FightingComet managed to skive off a PE lesson unwittingly - and not a rugby field, nonce, forged note or crap PE kit in sight... :-)
(FightingComet got Boost Power on, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 23:41, Reply)

the best year
Right at the start of the sixth grade (that's U.S. style, I was ten years old) I happened to drop a concrete block on one of my big toes, which then became infected so bad that a few days later the toenail fell off. Naturally I could not participate in phys. ed. until it healed. Thanks to antibiotics, it healed up in two or three weeks to where I could walk with no impediment.

You don't think I told the phys. ed. teacher about that, do you? For the entire rest of the school year I'd start limping theatrically about a half-hour before phys. ed. class. While all my classmates were fiddling with their balls and sweating like convicts on a chain gang (Florida, no a/c) I'd be relaxing on the shady bleachers with a library book, while listening to WLCY (1964/5, the Stones! the Who! the Yardbirds! the Beatles!) on my transistor radio. After the class bell rang I'd limp out of the gym and be on my way, cool, calm and collected. It was the best year of phys. ed. I ever had.
(wkiernan, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 23:21, Reply)

Cross Country
I did well in PE track events, as being long-legged, tall and skinny gave me an advantage at high, long, and triple jump; and also the hurdles. However I never did enjoy the longer running events - how boring to run around and around a track. Then I heard about Cross Country.

I was so looking forward to getting into high school so I could run Cross Country. However, I had no idea how the sport worked. In my mind it was something like an obstacle course - running through the wild woods, leaping over streambeds and fallen logs, scrambling down steep banks, and racing against your opponents side-by-side, trying to beat them to the gaps in the trees and brush. That's why I spent an entire summer running pell-mell through the local woods, for hours at a time.

I was terribly disappointed to find out that the real sport is a jaunty 3-mile trot down some dirt roads, and is essentially a team event due to the scoring regime.

On the plus side, if I'm ever in a group being chased through the forest by a grizzly bear, I'll be the one living to tell the story.
(danalan Pretty good, for an amateur., Fri 20 Nov 2009, 23:14, Reply)

Silly PE games...
All I remember about the game was that we had to run around in a big circle and catch the person in front. I think the people caught out had to sit in the middle as we ran round them..

Anyhoo I had little understanding of centrifugal force as I ran faster and faster and faster still round and round until *MAJOR SPANG* I had run into a H beam steel pillar as I had gone wider and wider.

I don't know how but I managed to put my arm up to soften the impact but still ended up out cold with a ickle small cut on my arm.

After a small system reset I got up and the PE teacher told me to go and see if I needed stitches by sending me to the biology teacher (not sure if we had a nursey on site at the time).

I left a nice trail of blood down the school corridors to boot.
( Signify, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 21:55, Reply)

Grin and bare it
Was Hutcheson's Grammar School in Glasgow the last to insist that girls wear gym tunics as school uniform? Well into the eighties they lasted there, to be worn on the two days a week when the girls had PE. Hideous.

And yet. And yet.

It became a custom amongst the young ladies, having acquired one of these monstrosities on joining the school at twelve, to wear the same one until they left. At eighteen.

The results had to be seen to be believed - as had the rows of young gentlemen, bent double with school bags held in front of them just below waist level. The apotheosis came with the head of school, a six foot amazon, whose gym slip was so short that her rather brief knickers showed without her having to bend over. Ah, happy, happy memories.
(ubergeekian, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 21:28, 3 replies)

Mr Morris
or *Maurice* as he was usually called.
one of our class had the unfortunate initials R.C. - after showing that he was what Maurice would call a 'uncoordinated dunderhead', Mr Morris give him the nickname 'RC' or 'Arsey' - which followed him, from all the teachers as well as kids, for the rest of his school life.
I don't remember the name of the female sports mistress, but I do know she gave me an abiding love for Cameltoes long before I knew what they were called
(essexfriend, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 21:10, Reply)

The bad old days
My 2 PE teachers were the epitome of every cliche going.
The big butch one with a sprinkling of facial hair who looked like a russian shotputter, and the younger one who flirted with all the male teachers and was a cow to everyone else unless you really really liked PE.
Back then, teachers could get away with the kind of brutality that would have them on an offenders list for life now.
Two incidents I remember, the young one screaming abuse at me for missing the ball in hockey.
I turned away and muttered under my breath 'oh shut up'
And she flipping heard it, dragged me across the field and made me sit at her feet after slapping my face.
Then told me to go to the heads office, which i did with glee because she had left 3 long nail scratches on my cheek when she hit me.
We were made to apologise to each other, and from then on it was pure hatred on both sides.
A mixed swimming lesson where I was dunked under repeatedly by one of the boys and lost conciousness and sank.
I was told afterwards that in spite of several people screaming that i was drowning she just stood there and said I was fine.
Someone else pulled me out and only then did she react. Cow!
Gym lesson with the butch one, I ran up a springboard to vault the horse and my big toe got caught in between the slats and stayed there while I kept going.
Result, one dislocated toe sitting at right angles to my foot and a teacher screaming at me for faking it to get out of class, made me sit on the side in agony.
Wasnt until afterwards when i couldnt get my shoe back on or stand on it she stopped yelling at me for being a liar and grudgingly let me go to the nurse.
No PE for 2 weeks and she got a right bollocking from my mum :)

Ah schooldays, the best days of your life ;)
(insomniac-surfer oh go on then, just this once, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 21:03, Reply)

Short and sweet..
I quite liked PE in high school - was a hockey goalie and still have the occasional match..

More to the point my youngest sister (who attends my old school) has a really FIT male PE teacher called Mr Welsh... he's yummy!
(miss.spanky.pants .. is looking for a handsome prince..., Fri 20 Nov 2009, 20:59, Reply)

Swimming logistics...
As a preface, let me explain something of my school's daily plan: Each day of school gets split into eight 'periods' of 40 minutes each, which were then split up into your classes as either single or double periods of a particular class. So your day ran something along the lines of - get to school, three periods of class, morning break, two periods of class, lunch, three periods of class, home.

PE was a class 'required' in your timetable, and to account for the time it takes getting changed and actually playing whatever chosen sport or activity, always timetabled as double periods.

Normally fine, occasionally a bit of a pain when you end up with a class over morning break - but most people just didn't bother changing and just went off in their PE kit which never really caused much problems.

I still want to meet whichever member(s) of staff decided that swimming was on the timetable for the year regardless, and slap some sense into them... Ever week for that block of however many weeks, everyone got to get changed, go swimming for a period, then got kicked out of the pool for break before resuming afterwards - so you all ended up spending break faffing about in the changing rooms with the limited friends in you class (and more importantly, the knuckledraggers you normally avoided as soon as the bell rung) as you would spend pretty much the whole time getting dried and clothed, then have to just get changed back into wet swimming kit pretty much straight away in time to go swimming after break.

I will admit that at least the swimming itself was more fun than the usual football, rugby or running done the rest of the year, pity the timetable cocked it up so much...
(442, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 20:58, 2 replies)

He likes short shorts
Mr Massey, for that was his name. And his style of teaching PE in primary school was unique.

Once he had stepped into his shortest shorts, and whitest vest, he would stride into the gym. A short warm up ensued, preparing his 60 year old body for the test before us. We would take our positions, Corbo the younger usually opting for the groin tingling rope aparatus.

With his left hand he would reach for the dial on the wall *click*
With his right he'd pull a cigar from god knows where, *flash*, light it, and for the next 45 minutes sit and smoke it, while we went completely spastic to whatever was on the radio.

This was the format of my PE lesson for 3 wonderful years.
(Corbo, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 20:45, 1 reply)

"Top gate and back"
There are I know some on here who will read those words and experience an involuntary shudder. Mr Prince of that school between Wargrave and Twyford, the one by the sewage works, is a legend amongst games teachers.

A total bastard, yes. A pint sized mass of yelling and authority, yes. But fair? Utterly. Respected? Totally.
(voodo_kinky, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 20:44, Reply)

High Jump.
Firstly, I am slightly below average height at 36 years of age. At 13 years of age I was nearly a fucking midget, if my father was to be believed.

One day in PE, Mr Rennie the PE teacher decided the whole class - boys and girls - would undertake a high jump elimination. The pole was set at about 50cm and we took it in turns to jump over. If you made it you could jump again, if not you were out. Once everyone had been over or spazzed up,the bar was raised by 10cm.

No one bothered with the fosby flop, you'd look like you were showing off and lets face it, for that height you'd be a cock anyway. Everyone vaulted in some form or other, one girl just ran straight at the bar in either a show of contempt or just plain dumbassedness.

So as the lesson progressed I seemed to be keeping up with the big boys. No idea how, but I did. One by one they dropped out until finally I was in the last 3, whereupon I made my exit.

There's no lolz, no payoff or big surprise - just this: the short kid beat nearly everyone in the class in the high jump. But no one cared because it was the high jump and not football, cricket or rugby.
(mcnelson, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 20:42, Reply)

Why the welsh are twats
Our head of PE who was also deputy head was a jumped up welsh twat who like many of that nation thought that
a)rugby was somehow important and
b)he was a genius of the game.
In the late 5th year (year 11 to youngsters) during what was thankfully to be the last ever enforced trial by exercise, he lined everyone towards one end of the sports hall and then, taking a rugby ball took up position at the other end.
He then challenged us, saying that he would be able to get past us all (there were about 50 of us) with the ball.
3,2,1, GO.
10 seconds later he had disappeared under a pile of youths who were kicking and punching with all the fury of 5 years of pent up resentment of institutional bullying - he'd got about 5 metres before sweaty justice descended literally like a fist! Oh joy...seldom has such a twat been pounded by so many.
(Carpe Perna! Evolution is just a theory...like Gravity., Fri 20 Nov 2009, 20:40, 3 replies)

Foul!
A friend of mine taught in a primary school for a short time. Taking a PE lesson and teaching football in the playground he managed to break his ankle. He claims he tripped on a drain cover which was the story he used for his compensation claim. I convinced all our friends it was a rough tackle by a seven year old.
(jvz, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 20:40, Reply)

Showers
After our school games lessons, showering was compulsory. You were limited to either wearing swimming trunks (the only ones allowed by the school were speedo style) or going in naked. Obviously this never really appealed to a great deal of the students, meaning that as few people showered as possible.

The PE staff decided to crack down, with one of the weirder ones finally shouting in the packed changing rooms:

"IF I HAVEN'T SEEN YOU IN THE SHOWER, YOU HAVEN'T BEEN IN THE SHOWER"

Erp.
(Merrep, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 19:58, Reply)

horsey
getting stuck on a pommel horse and laughing so much that you fart is not going to endear you to your P.E. teacher.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 19:42, 2 replies)

The Mad Monk
Our PE teacher at high school was typical PE teacher material: loud, arrogant, slightly balding, and thought he was God's Gift to women. Many of the girls had a 'thing' for him. Us lads just thought he was a bit of a nob, with his rapidly growing bald patch, stupid swagger and inability to speak at a normal volume.

Once we were skiving proper PE, in the gym/dining room destroying some table tennis balls by belting them around with a broken chair back. Once we'd smashed them to bits, we started knocking a tennis ball around. This soon became a 'proper' game of cricket with wickets made from other bits of chairs, fielders, even a 'hit the window for a 6' rule.

We were having a right laugh when in strolls Mr Smug. We froze, he takes one look and flips out at us, something like this...
"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?"
"Nothing Sir"
"IT DOESN'T LOOK LIKE NOTHING! THINK OF THE DAMAGE YOU COULD CAUSE! HOW DARE YOU BREAK CHAIRS AND PLAY CRICKET WITH THEM!"
"Sorry Sir"

The next big saw him go way up in our estimation. Expecting a right bollocking and a trip to the deputy head for a royal going over and probably a few whacks of the slipper, he shouts at us again....
"GET THE RIGHT EQUIPMENT AND HIDE THOSE BROKEN CHAIRS! I'M THE UMPIRE!"

Big unexpected let off and a good afternoon's sport for all!
(randomstupidname would really like this signature field to be bigge, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 19:37, Reply)

I have many gruesome memories of PE class.
One of the worst, though, must be the memory of the teacher I had during the last three years of primary school. It was an all-girls school, but we had a male PE teacher (who used to walk around in the changing rooms all the time, which got a little weird by the age of 12) whose name translates to Sweet Lips. Yes, that's really what his name sounded like in my native language.

And I still have nightmares of the time we had to do some kind of somersault over a vault - by this time I was fourteen and in a co-ed high school. I misplaced my hand on the vault, fell, and in my attempt to break my fall accidentally put my hand on my teacher's crotch and took him down with me (yes, by his balls). Somehow I also managed to get my t-shirt over my head, leaving my breasts exposed to a class full of horny boys. The horror, the horror.
(St. Dymphna, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 19:14, Reply)

Cross Country LOLGASMS
I won the cross country in PE every time. Because I used my HONDA ACCORD. Then I pinned my teacher to the wall and kung fued him in the face while having LASHES OF SEX with SUPERMODELS. And if you say I'm lying, you are evil because I fuck my uncle.
( baldmonkey a frothy foul-smelling vaginal discharge, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 19:11, 2 replies)

So, anyway, there was this teacher, and I was scared of football, and to cut a long story short;

( Dr Preference AjcuiVd289, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 18:47, 2 replies)

Kids grow up younger these days
Years ago, I was at my kids' school for some reason when one of the classes was changing for PE. The kids were 10-11, and when the sweaters came off, I couldn't help noticing that a few of the girls were starting to look a little top-heavy.

The teacher had spotted this too, and like the decent man he was, had resorted to being very busy in the store cupboard until kits were back on.

He was a probationer and hadn't got anywhere with the head over it - the head thought he was over-reacting, which I think shows how far behind the times he was slipping.

I was a parent governor so I approached the head myself and, not being as easily fobbed off, sat there repeating myself until he agreed to take us seriously.

So shortly afterwards, Mr Taff and the female teacher next door began to swap their girls and lads at changing times and there was no more embarrassment.

The vast majority of teachers are good people like this. Most of the time, kids are safe with them.
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 18:45, 3 replies)

Rounders
In my school we had to wear little skirts to do PE. This would have been all well and good if the pitch where we played rounders and hockey wasn't surfaced with tiny bits of gravel which were as sharp (or possibly even sharper than) broken glass. One afternoon we were playing rounders and as I was rounding second base I slipped and cut up my knee really badly. Everyone obviously rushed over to see if I was ok and as I was being helped up it occurred to me that in all the drama nobody had got me out. With the element of surprise on my side, a knee full of gravel and copious amounts of blood pouring down my leg I scored my first ever rounder that day.
(mmm....beer, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 18:41, Reply)

It was just before stepping into the makeshift boxing ring that I started to have serious doubts about going 3 long rounds with the class's pikey bully a lot bigger and fatter than me...

David Petulengro (not his real name but close) had been punching, spitting and kicking the rest of us in the year for pretty much the first 2 terms of comprehensive and been getting away with it. He had an older brother in the 5th year and considered himself untouchable, I loathed that horse stealing heather selling gyppo fuckwit but him being considerably bigger and harder than me, my loathing was kept in check.
It was during games that things came to a head, I liked PE except of course the obligatory cross country and our teachers were good blokes.

But during one PE period the teacher was out of the gym and pikey boy's slapping and kicking my mate tipped me over the edge and as he ran after my mate I stepped behind him, tapped his ankle,he went over like a sack of spuds and the whole class roared it's approval, pikey boy got up and started to rain down blows and we started to fight when our PE teacher came back in and dragged us both out to the corridor.
Instead of sending us to the headmaster he offered us the chance to 'get it out of our system' by having a boxing match according to the 'marquis of queensburys rules'.
My blood being up I immediately agreed and it was decided the next weeks PE period would be when it happen. It was about 10 minutes after I realised I had a made a serious error and now dreaded my now impending beating.
Mr 'Jones' the PE caught up with me later on in the day and said he wanted to see me after school.

That night and over the next week after school he gave me tips and showed me the basics to survive my upcoming encounter but more importantly the confidence that I could do at least some damage to the gyppo without being crippled for life.
The fight came round all to quickly and had the whole school buzzing, at he last minute 'Jonesy' and said 'stick this down your shorts boyo' lent me a cricket box to protect my nads and was led into makeshift ring. I knew I wouldnt win but 'Jonesy' told me to fight as hard as I could and if I didn't win to come a bloody close second so that he would think twice about attacking me again.

The bell rung and for the next three minutes I managed to duck his haymakers and rabbit punches while getting one or two jabs of my own straighty onto his nose and a nice shot to his solar plexus which took the wind out of his sails which only managed to enrage him.
round two didnt go as planned as he caught me cold and I just about managed to survive his frantic windmilling.

By round three the fat pikey had shot his bolt and my body and head punches were really making an impact, near the end he did a low uppercut into my genitals which left me writhing in the floor. He was warned and thank god for the box otherwise I would have been emasculated. We finished the last round and it was declared a draw, as we went to shake hands he gave me a 'playful' hard slap in the face, my scottish rage kicked in, I head butted him and broke his nose, claret sprayed everywhere to the loud cheer of my classmates.

I got into serious trouble and so did Mr 'jones' for organising it, but luckily no charges were pressed and as the pikey petulengros family were were known to the old bill and seeing one of their number get his comeuppance was a result for them (papa Petulengro went down for attempted murder a few years later.

The fight went down in legend at the school, I was never even looked at in an agressive way and pikey boy was expelled the following year and the family hooked up the caravan to blight some other town.
I never did get to say thanks properly to 'Jonesy' but he has my grattiude and thanks after all these years.

Cheers jonesy and the wink and grin you gave me after he went down was better than any victory.

apologies for the length but three rounds are long enough
(nimrodihnio making gravy for one., Fri 20 Nov 2009, 18:12, Reply)

The friend, my revenge, a bike and the minibus...
...could be a long one but here goes.

I went to a school where taking a few knocks and taking the piss were the daily grind. It's all in the past now but at the time, if someone did something bad to you then revenge had to be had sooner rather than later.

We reached year 11 (aged 16) and the PE dept had decided we were finally mature enough to not always do cross country in the rain etc and, in small groups, activities off the premises were organised. These included basic golf lessons at a nearby club and, of significance to this story, canoe lessons at the "aquadrome" about 12 miles away.

For reasons now beyond me my "best friend" (who was in retrospect always a bit of a cunt to me) decided that we had to get some pointless revenge on another lad in our class. Both my mate, Michael, and the other lad were in the canoe group so spent Wednesday afternoons travelling to and from the aquadrome in the minibus driven by a PE teacher who quite frankly must have been kicked out of the army for unnecessary shouting.

In my good boy mindset the revenge we stupidly, and rather lamely, came up with was to write a number of offensive signs/notices about this lad. The plan being that I would bunk off PE for the afternoon, cycle to the aquadrome and affix them to the fences/bridge on the way out for all on the bus to see.

We reached D-day and my day didn't really go to plan. Michael, being the twat he was, released a similar plan on me but on a much nastier scale. He wrote some offensive crap about me buggering cats or similar and slipped it into the school noticeboard which were those old enclosed type with a locked glass front. By the time I heard about it half the school had already seen it. You can imagine my state of mind to find everywhere I went the majority of 1200 nasty little kids taunting me. Turns out the caretaker was away for the day and had the only keys for the noticeboard. I was less than pleased.

In my head, revenge was to be swift. I destroyed the original posters for that afternoons plan and remade them bearing Michaels name instead.

A "get out of PE" note from the parents was duly faked and I got a friend to hand it in. I hopped on my rode the 12 miles to the aquadrome. I affixed my posters everywhere and went to take shelter. Assured the minibus was always left the aquadrome by 3:15pm in order to be back at school in time I sat and waited away from the crime scene.

For reasons beyond me in my head the "right" thing to do was to take the posters down after they had served their purpose. So at 3:20pm I rode my bike up the drive of the aquadrome, around the corner only to come face to face with the minibus, 15 teenagers and a bemused looking PE teacher blocking the road.

He glared at me and bellowed at me to "take these posters down right now!". Instinct kicked in and I rode my bike full pelt across the bridge toward the group. My right arm outstretched in one sweep I ripped a row of a dozen posters down barely slowing my speed. The crumpled paper tucked under my arm I heard the bald headed bastard behind me bellow to "Get over here right now!". I decided that wasn't gonna be in my best interests.... so in one deft manouvre I turned the bike sharply, down an embankment and onto the canal towpath where I pushed the bike as hard as I could and left the group standing on the bridge watching me dissappear into the distance.

This must have been like a red rag to a bull for him. He knew I hated PE, I wasn't on any teams and never did well in any sport I was forced to endure. Ironically if they'd ever had a cycling choice for PE he'd have found the one thing I did enjoy.

I'd already clocked up about 3 miles when I approached a road bridge, still on the canal path beneath it, and the school minibus crossed the bridge complete with pointing gawping teenagers on board. "Oh shit" I thought when I realised he was heading back to school at full pelt presumeably to phone my parents or tell the headteacher etc. The only thing that seemed to make sense to me was to get there first. And so, my 16 year old legs set about the fastest most intense bike minibus race the world has ever seen... probably.

I thrashed along the canal knowing it was shorter than the road, at least as far as the town. Periodically the path and roads would pass within sight of one another and I could check progress, it seems I wasn't the only one keeping tabs on what was happening. Back at school, my absence had been noted as well as that days activities.

When I reached the library at the top of the town I saw the minibus begin around the one way system, I however went for it down the pedestrianised high street. Shoppers scattered as I pedalled for all my worth down the street. By the time I reached the other end of the high street a mile later I was ahead of the minibus which sat waiting at the traffic lights.

Traffic lights! I had my allie in this war of motor against man. Transferring the pavement I reached out and hit the button of every pedestrian crossing I passed, setting off a wave of red lights in my wake to slow up the minibus as best I could.

In the final mile the hill climb was exhausting, but to my benefit the minibus had to go around the back of the school to drive in the gate, while I went through pedestrian gate. I dumped my bike and headed for the PE changing room where I was supposed to be.... but I never made it. To my credit I'd just cycled 12 miles as fast as a minibus could do it, better any feat I'd managed in 5 years of forced PE lessons.

On the final run to the PE changing room the deputy head saw me and stopped me in my tracks. This was someone you didn't run from. I stood in silence save for my heavy breathing of exhaustion. My silent gaze of terror returned by a look of purpose from the deputy head. Just then the PE teacher and the gaggled group of teenagers in tow came into view. "Ah good! You got him then" he said to the deputy head. He began to explain my crimes to the deputy who deftly interrupted "It's ok, I'll handle this" and with that I was walked to the deputys office.

I feared the worst at this point. I knew I was in trouble. Thing was I was a good boy really, a swot if anything.
The deputy looked me in the eye and spoke.
"I've got this note here, but it's obviously a fake.
I know you bunked off this afternoon.
I know where you went and what you did.

However one of the girls came and told me what happened today, so I also know why you did it.

Don't let it happen again and I suggest this is the last time we mention it. You can go home now. I'll deal with the PE dept.".

So with utter bewilderment I left and went home.

To this day I have no idea who told the truth on my behalf but I wish I could thank them.
(golddust QOTW now revolves around being a cunt, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 18:05, Reply)

needlessly fecal
this happened about two months ago, not in my PE class but at an inner city london public swimmingpool that happened to have a class in at the time... The pool is chock full- they'd somehow rammed in the school group in one lane and the plebs in the next. then it clears, everyone screaming... a floating turd. a girl gets dragged out by a screaming woman, who then slaps her in front of the crowd.

no-one noticed the turd at that point, just a woman slapping a pasty-overweight thirteenyearold girl with a tube up her nose.

then the girl's mother appears, from the changing room or something. The girl is crying, the mother grabs hold of the other woman's hair and starts yelling something in essexese "you fawkin touch maw girrl agen an I'll fuckin throttle ya! fuuckkn cowww!

then she tries to push the other woman into the swimmin' pool, who is now holding onto the mother's hair, they both fall in and are both thrashing around in the pool. the shit, meanwhile is floating dangerously near.

the mother is yelling- 'she's sick, she's gotta go to the doctors, you know that- we've got an appointment in fifteen minutes!'

the life guards are manning a complex operation of trying to simultaneously seperate the women with one pool net and scoop up the floating body with a second. The police arrive. the other woman has a broken nose and is gushing blood. a chorus of muscle-marys take a break from tanning themselves on an overlooking balcony to jeer the two women as they are escorted out.

meanwhile a few teenagers carry on bombing up the deep end, taking advantage of the anarchy caused by the engagement of all the lifeguards.
(veryangry, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 18:03, 1 reply)

sports day
despite being crap at sport, i loved sports day. it always seemed to be warm and sunny, there were no other lessons and you could show off in front of your parents who, if you were lucky, would bring sweets and drinks with them.
one particular sports day i will remember till the day i die.
the day had started well, i hadn't fallen over once and had only come last in one event. all was good.
then, the cry went out: time for the egg and spoon race.
i knew i didn't stand a chance, tommy ball always won this one. nevertheless, i determined to give it my all.
we lined up, grim determination on our faces.
the whistle blew, we were off! tommy ball streaked ahead of the pack, as predicted, but something wonderful was happening; everyone but me was dropping their eggs. this was my chance! risking a fateful egg drop, i increased my speed as much as my podgy legs would allow. my egg wobbled, wobbled, wobbled.....and did not fall. against all reason, against all expectations, i crossed the finish line in second place.
second! i'd never done so well! i was elated. i ran over to my mum, who hugged me and told me she was proud of me. that was better than any medal.

for the next 20 minutes, i had a break as it was time for the hurdles, which i wasn't entered in.
my break ended when the headmaster announced that it was time for the sack race. i'd never attempted the sack race before, never even practised it. it seemed fairly easy.
oh, how could i be so wrong?
the whistle blew and the race began. the other children shot off, leaping across the track like hemp-coated salmon. i, on the other hand, was having a bit of a problem. i was crap at jumping. not only that, but i was finding the whole thing very amusing so, whenever i tried to jump, i would move about 2 inches, then dissolve into uncontrollable giggles. this wasn't noticed immediately, but as soon as the other children had passed the finish line, all eyes were on me. i had traversed barely a third of the track, my ineptitude and giggling making for very slow going.
within moments, the other children started giggling.
then the parents.
then the teachers.
soon, the entire field was howling with laughter, as i struggled doggedly towards the finish line, tears of mirth streaming down my face. i was going to finish, no matter what.
after what seemed like a breathless eternity, the finish line was upon me. my teacher rushed forward, intending to help me over the line. unfortunately for us both, i chose that precise moment to trip and fall, taking her down with me, the two of us landing in a howling heap on the grass.

nobody remembered me coming second in the egg and spoon race, but nobody forgot that sack race.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 17:46, 2 replies)

I was quite good at some sports
Notably, the 100 metres. I could run 100 metres faster than anyone else at the school. I had no stamina for longer events, but by jings I could shift at a sprint.

As a bit of a bonus the 100 metres is a relatively glamorous event unlike some sports which we never practiced and in which you were thus likely to make a fool of yourself like, say, the high jump. Which is why every sports day I'd be nominated to do the high jump.

I couldn't do it for toffee, but my house seemed to think it was worth it in order to let the popular kids lose in the glamorous events. Every year. The only good thing to say about it was that it wasn't quite as risible as the efforts to be seen in the hop-skip-and-jump.

I hated school.
(richardm, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 17:38, Reply)

Too Cold To Have P.E. Outside?
No problem at our school, we just had it indoors instead. Which was fine...until it came to rugby. Yes...rugby...played in a gymnasium. With those fucking useless wafer thin mats they used for gymnastics at either end to reduce by 0.0001% the chance of you hurting yourself when scoring a try.

As for the teacher (I won't mention his name), he spent more time shagging the sixth form girls than he did actually over seeing the P.E. lessons. No surprise then when he didn't return to work after half term, when apparently one of the girls Dads' found out about the P.E. he'd been having with his (just about legal) daughter.

And then there was Sports Day. Not just one sports day for us mind you, but a Summer Sports Day and a Winter Sports Day. The Summer one would inevitably be held on the hottest day of the year, at our local athletics stadium. I can still hear our House Master saying, "Flunk, you're doing the 1,500 meters this year...don't come last or you'll be in detention for a week." Luckily, one of the other houses had chosen 'Malcolm' to represent them. 'Malcolm' was the least athletic person in the world. Detention would seemingly be avoided simply by strolling 'round in front of him for 15 minutes. Unfortunately 'Malcolm's Dad was a Parents' Representative on the School Board. The whingeing tosser got his Dad to have a word and miraculously was 'excused' from taking part a week before hand. You can guess the rest, surely?

Then there was Winter Sports Day, which involved a cross country run. Not so bad until you realise that it part of the course went through a river...a freezing cold river. It was so cold one year that it did actually freeze over to about 2 inches thick. Now it has to be pretty fucking cold for that to happen to running water. But still the bastards made us run through it.

Kids today don't know what they are missing.
(Ceasar Flunk can see your house from here, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 17:25, Reply)