The trials of having a PE Teacher Mum....
...as experienced by a youthful Snowy.

- When you play her at any sport, even as a kid, she will mercilessly defeat you in order to demonstrate her credentials. This included beating me at tennis in straight sets... when I was seventeen and a foot taller than her.

- If she comes down the park when you and your mates are having a kick around, she will shout instructions, and even get involved to demonstrate how a corner ought to be taken. My dad now hates taking her to the rugby, because she will also loudly offer comprehensive advice to professional Rugby Union players.

- Throughout your life, your physical form will be scrutinised and commented on. Last time I visited, her first words were 'You've got fat legs. You should start jogging'

- She also has a disarmingly frank attitude to sex. When I split up with a girl I'd been seeing at Uni my mum's consolation was 'Well... I bet she was a bit frigid anyway wasn't she? She looked it...' (for the record - she was). She also asked me if I was gay when I was fifteen. 'No mum!'. 'Oh, right. Just rubbish with girls then?'

- Lastly, you have to put up with all the jokes about her being a lesbian. This is not helped by her having shorter hair than you and wearing trackies and polo shirts both in and out of work. One of my mates once saw her waving from a distance when we were in town and asked 'Is that your dad?'. He wasn't joking...

She's great though. And you'll never be short of sports equipment... how many other people have borrowed their mum's cricket bat?
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Sat 21 Nov 2009, 15:52, 2 replies)

No PE teacher ever
pointed out to me that exercising will make you more attractive to girls. So I guess PE teachers really are stupid.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Sat 21 Nov 2009, 15:50, 1 reply)

Sports 'Stars'
My mum was a PE teacher for 30 years in Birmingham Comprehensive schools.

One point she and the rest of the PE Dept made repeatedly to parents and kids was the folowing:

- Your child is good at sport
- However, lots and lots of kids are very good at sport
- Making a living from sport is exceptionally difficult
- In fact, in 30 years, none of the kids my mum had seen go through her schools had ever gone on to become professional footballers
- It might therefore be a good idea if your kid did some academic work and got some qualifications rather than basing their life plan entirely on being the next David Beckham

No one ever, ever listens. They mostly end up working in McDonalds.
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Sat 21 Nov 2009, 15:09, 1 reply)

How my mate destroyed all credibility in three seconds flat
This is related, honest...

*wavy lines back 17 years or so*

I used to move around a lot as a kid. This takes place when I was living in the New Forest (specifically, Cadnam). As a result of constant moving, I never really got to have that many friends because I was always a shy fucker. However, at Cadnam, I managed to somehow start talking to the cool kid of the class, Jack. And we became firm friends for the period of time that I was there.

Jack was like some sort of prepubescent Hugh Hefner, as he always hung around with girls, and managed to constantly get them to let him look up their skirt. I honestly have no idea how he managed such things, and at that time, quite frankly didn't really care, as girls were icky and my Megadrive was more important to me than girls were. We were both 5 at the time, and I was the geekier one out of the pair of us whilst he was Mr Suave and Charming (for a 5 year old anyway).

And then, one fateful day, it happened.

We had spent lunch outside in the woods, me attempting to play football with a few of our male compatriots (as previously noted, I play football about as well as Stephen Hawking does.), Jack slightly further in the woods lying on the ground, looking up skirts as girls straddled his face, when we heard the bell to come in and register. So we go inside, register, and then, as we have PE now, we go and get our PE kits.

Now, maybe it was a quirk of my school or something, but we had to get changed in the classroom. No separate changing rooms. You had to get changed behind your chair at the table you were seated at that day. As a five year old, I didn't particularly care. My Optimus Prime pants were awesome and I wasn't afraid of showing them off.

As me and Jack were friends, we sat next to each other. So I start to get changed, taking the time to quite brazenly show off my Optimus Prime y-fronts, and turn to talk to Jack, when Jack has an accident. Maybe he's just got really tight trousers on, maybe it was something else. All I know is, one second he's straining to pull his trousers down, and the next second, he's succeeded.

Along with pulling down his grimy pants at the same time.

Which have a skidmark in them. A fairly large one at that.

"AAAAARRRRRGH" screeches the boy sat opposite Jack as he gets a sudden showing of Jack's tiny, hairless twig'n'berries.

"UUUUUUURGGGGH" shrieks I at the same time at seeing his soiled undercrackers as well as the aforementioned goods.

This causes the girl behind us to turn and get a faceful of Jack's hairless peachy bum. Which causes her to shriek as well.

This sudden shrieking causes other people to turn their heads and start shrieking and/or laughing at Jack who is holding his pants by his knees.

The teacher sprints over and Jack hurriedly yanks his pants up, but the damage has been done. In the three seconds flat, he has managed to ruin his credibility and destroyed his prepubescent Hugh Hefner reputation in the class.

Talk immediately spread during the PE lesson, and then throughout the school by the end of the day, of the boy who tried to strip off for a PE lesson.

Apologies for length, it was fairly big.
(Ghost Atreides enjoying incontestable health benefits on, Sat 21 Nov 2009, 14:52, 3 replies)

Arnie...
Came over to the UK on an exchange scheme thingy from Detroit (I think, somewhere like that) and a bit of an inspirational cove really. He was too old to get crushy on, and so won people over by being loud, positive and encouraging at every opportunity. He got us (even the non-sporty like me) involved playing basketball and baseball at lunchtimes. One lunchtime he won my eternal admiration.
My sportily-gifted middle brother was playing a blinder at basketball in the sports hall one lunchtime, with about a dozen other teenaged hormone casualties. I was watching because it was raining outside. This was a fast, spirited kind of game no quarter asked for etc, etc. My brother leapt in the air, caught the ball and went on a solo run to the other end of the court, finishing with a crunchy splat into the end wall. He stood up with his brave-face-stiff-upper-lip firmly on under the blood gouting from his nose. Arnie sprinted over, grabbed my bro's nose with the fingers of one hand, and hit that hand with the other. Result! Blood stopped, pain stopped as well, cue big grin from sporty brother, quick wipe with t shirt and on with the game...
Well, I was impressed...
(Beer Elf Thought this was like a campfire, anyhow, on, Sat 21 Nov 2009, 14:52, Reply)

P.E
One of our P.E teachers was from another dimension. He fought for the Magical Light in the war against the Powers of Darkness & he could shoot a holographic Leopard from his chest... No wait, that was The Visionaries.
(Dr Fishfinger Want's to see a fat man give a tit wank, Sat 21 Nov 2009, 13:09, 1 reply)

Psychotic, sadistic PE teacher
We had a PE / games teacher called Mr Pratt.

As an aside, if your name was Pratt would you one day think to yourself: "Teaching! Now there's a profession where my name won't be the subject of ridicule"?

I attended a grammar school between 1981 and 1986 and much of what I describe below would probably land a teacher in court nowadays. But this was then:

Mr Pratt was ex-army and to be honest, a good teacher. Even though his punishments were sadistic, they were certainly effective. Two examples:

If you misbehaved in the gym, you got the "wallbars treatment".

An example of misbehaviour in PE was to have not thrown an indoor cricket ball hard enough at one of your classmates in a game of "burn ball". The object of said game was to throw the indoor cricket ball (a heavy, dense rubber ball) at your classmates' guts or kidneys and render them incapacitated on the floor. But if you weren't playing "properly", you'd get the wallbars.

The "offender" would have to climb the wallbars which covered the walls of the gym: a height of about 15 feet. You would then have to face forwards, into the gym while six of your classmates formed a cradle with their interlocked arms. You then had to fall forward, keeping your body straight, into the arms of your classmates. You literally put your life in their hands. And if you dared to close your eyes on the way down, you'd have to go back up and do it again.

Another one was one which I was a victim of:

I was having a fight (proper fists and feet schoolboy tussle) with my best mate (teenage boys tend to have lovers' tiffs) in the top playground.

The top playground was overlooked by the staffroom, so fights were usually pretty short-lived, except when Mr Pratt was involved.

So there we were, going hammer and tongs at each other; ripped blazers and so on, when we became aware of the doughnut of boys shouting "fight, fight!" around us parting.

We stopped fighting and through the parting came Mr. Pratt.

"Carry on" he said.
"Sir?" we said.

The fight had sort of lost its appeal by now but he continued to insist that we continue for his entertainment.

"Don't let me stop you: carry on!"

And so he made us beat the living crap out of each other.

Cunt!

(Apologies for length, girth etc.)
( <>Dog www.stevelaker.blog, Sat 21 Nov 2009, 12:53, Reply)

PE Teacher
Catholic boys school. Australia. Late 70's. We had a right bastard of a sports master. His claim to fame(of which he reminded us constantly)was that he had been to the Mexico Olympics as a walker. I always said its a pity he didn't go to Munich and get shot by an Arab.

Anyway he was a bully, he used to try and humiliate the fat kids, I was built like a greyhound and could run if I needed to,I just didn't see the point to it, but my best mate was a porker and used to get tormented by the bastard. I hated him and he knew it.

Our mutual dislike came to a head one day in "health class" He asked if anybody didn't like sport, I raised my hand. You don't like football? (Rugby League in these parts)
No.
You don't like soccer?
No.
You don't like cricket?
No.
Well why not, whats wrong with sport?

It's just something the unintelligent do for self esteem.

He was speechless, he had just been bitch slapped by a 12 year old,he had no comeback at all. I don't think he spoke to me for the rest of the year and he resigned at the end of the school year. I have always hoped that I contributed to that decision.

He was replaced by a fantastic sports master who encouraged everybody to compete to the best of their ability and who instilled in me an appreciation of sport that I retain to this day (except cricket, that still sucks).

Conpar. Be gentle it's my first time.
(conpar, Sat 21 Nov 2009, 12:13, 4 replies)

swedish longball
PE lesson. rain. mud. interform in a week, so we weren't allowed on the feild. the girls were using the other field for hockey or something, leaving about 100 or so boys (3 groups worth) with nothing to do. swedish longball happened. usual scoring system: 1 point for getting round, 3 for getting round without stopping, 10 for the ball hitting the back wall, 20 for the ball hitting the basketball hoop, £10 for scoring a basket. my turn to bat, the ball came at me. I swung. I missed. the bat kept swinging. it slipped out of my hands. I turned round at the wrong time. SMACK! the bat hit me square in the face. in front of 100 people. this showed how nice the PE staff were... they were laughing twice as hard as the students.
(venort apparently exists, Sat 21 Nov 2009, 12:00, Reply)

There was a PE Teacher at our school
He was a right bastard, used to throw tennis balls at us, call me 'nancy-boy', and make us take freezing cold showers while he watched. The final humiliation came when he scythed me down while playing six-a-side football. I lamped my brains out on the wall of the Sports Hall while everyone else laughed. The guy was twice my size, for heaven's sake!

As a bit of revenge, I wrote a poem about his paedophilic tendencies and stuck it up on the gym wall. There was a lot of fuss and rumours, which I did plenty to encourage by managing to hack into the school's primitive ICT network and changing people's wallpaper to photos of him being taken up the arse by a big black man.

He got his own back, though. During my annual review, he reported that my lesson observations were all unsatisfactory. Apparently it's 'disrespectful to do this kind of thing to the Deputy Head', and they expected higher levels of professionalism from a member of the teaching staff.
( ousgg is not seeking approval, Sat 21 Nov 2009, 11:41, Reply)

Swimming
Swimming was an option at our school. Every other girl was hockey mad so I used to be the only girl in the changing rooms for swimming. The problem came that it was a public swimming pool as the leisure centre adjoined the school and the teachers considered the lifeguards could do their job and left us all alone. The boys would generally chat in the changing room and mess about in the pool and have a good time.

I would have to see the drooping, veiny and pendulous breasts of the old women who swam in the Senior Swim session that the leisure centre ran in the hour before our P.E. lesson. The women who would casually but vigorously be rubbing their nooks and crannies with towels whilst making polite conversation with me.

I took to wearing my swimsuit under my school uniform and avoiding needing a wee for the whole morning, just to speed up the changing room horror.

Also I used to avoid one cubicle because I'm sure there was a spyhole into the mens changing rooms, for the smell of Lynx Africa was stronger in there than anywhere else!
(Mrs Ballunatic counting calories, not votes., Sat 21 Nov 2009, 11:25, Reply)

why is it always...
Rugby..

I attended a normal North of England secondary school (comprehensive) in the 80s. The sport was wither rugby or cross country and given the stupid amounts of rain this always involved a great deal of mud. I was, at the time, a rather portly child and did not see the need to partake of any exercise and hated all sport. My parents even arranged for me to be taken out of sport in the later years of school so I could fit more GCE (the S didn't exist then except for the thickos getting CSEs) exams.

In the early years I had no choice and the school had just acquired a new PE teacher, who was a failed rugby star (He even had a stupid twatty hard-guy moustache and looked a lot the like the sports teacher out of "Gregorys girl"). His idea was to just play rugby at every lesson, in every weather. If you didnt have mud all over you by the end of the lesson, then you were made to roll in it before going in for a shower (WTF?).

In my case the showers rarely happened, as I was one of a group of kids who had to catch a bus to get home. The buses never waited and the lessons frequently overran, so going home dirty was normal at least twice a week.

At primary school I had won awards for rugby excellence (I still have the certs!!), so the secondary school turned a sporty youth into a fat lazy arse.

I went on to trial for the light blues boat at Cambridge University and am now seriously into fell running (in the mud).

My son eventually went to the same school and I was a bit bothered when he started coming home with his school uniform over his mud plastered legs. This turned out to be simple shower-dodging rather than any sadism by the teachers (at least that was all I was told).
(gearanach #wankwankwank, Sat 21 Nov 2009, 10:45, Reply)

Rugby
I went to an all-boys Grammar School that pretended to be Eton, and so like many others here, I was made to spend the winter and spring terms subtly avoiding a rugby ball without getting caught by our overweight, cigar-smoking ex-marine games teacher.

But my point is this: who in their right might takes 30 adolescents in varying stages of development, from the one who's already 6'4" and growing a beard, to the poor little 5'2" squirt who's still waiting for his balls to drop, and chucks a rugby ball at them? And then encourages said 6'4" boy as he pummels the 5'2" kid into the ground, and berates the smaller one for not trying hard enough?

They might as well have just taken blood samples and given medals to the lads with high testosterone levels while berating everyone else.
(lolwhites, Sat 21 Nov 2009, 10:21, Reply)

Nice
In 1996 I got an A* in GCSE PE.

I have done very little excercise ever since.

That is all.
(Corbo, Sat 21 Nov 2009, 9:56, 2 replies)

More strangely unathletic sports teachers
My school was rabidly obsessed with sports. Football, cricket, rugby, tennis, swimming, athletics, hockey, squash, cross-country...I'm sure if you'd volunteered to play something more exotic like polo they could have accommodated you.

The 'best' school rugby field was right in front of the school building itself, so someone turning up for their first games lesson might think there wasn't very far to go and this would be a bit of a cinch. Then, however, they'd look again and realise that in their infinite wisdom, the school had built the pitch in a giant natural basin, so as soon as there was the slightest drop of rain (not that rare an occurrence in the South East of England) the pitch would become waterlogged and stay that way for several days. So, it was off to the 'other' rugby pitches. These were always excellently drained, since they were located on top of a massive hill about two miles from the school. If they were in an indulgent mood the teachers would just say "Off you go" and wait for you to turn up, which meant you could walk there; if not, one of the younger sports teachers (the only ones with anything approaching physical fitness) would accompany you to make sure you ran every step of the way. We usually got to the top fields, in varying states of knackeredness, just in time to see the fat bastard head rugby coach arrive in his car and park right next to the clubhouse. The one time I saw him run was during a match, when the biggest lad in the year got the ball and belted off down the pitch with it. No-one else dared tackle this guy for fear of being flattened. Fat Bastard was not impressed with our display of British pluck and galloped towards us like a rage-infested rhino, screaming "Ye great bollocks!" in a manner that would have put Begbie to shame.

I also had the strange experience once of watching my head of music (large of gut and slap of head) ski down a mountain in Austria. Watching him bob and weave like FrankenWeeble made it impossible not to think of Dr. Robotnik.
( .Yeti. El amor en los tiempos del cólera, Sat 21 Nov 2009, 9:01, 2 replies)

Stupid as Fuck Teacher.
Hoya!

THIS is a subject for me!

In my second year of lycée (more or less equivalent to A-Levels in France), we had the archetypical bitch of a teacher. The kind of guy who would give orders whilst smoking a fag...

One day, we had to go to some outside tennis courts in order to play, erm, tennis.

Thas was fine because, even if I am not sporty at all, I could manage hitting tennis balls without being too ridiculous.

So we arrived at the courts. There, two problems arose.

First of all, it was raining cats and dogs, with is no good for tennis, is it?
Second, the courts were in a very bad state. Being made of concrete, painted tennis green and not being protected by a roof above, caused the ground to be cracked and full of potholes like a Kabul road after a US Air Force strike. It was so bad that some parts were even curled like some old wall paint!

So, after having given us rackets and balls and set up nets, he told us to start playing! The painted concrete, thanks to the water, became highly slippery and the portholes were THE thing to twist one's ankles. But the funniest part were the balls. Soaked as they were, they made a spongy, funny sound every time they got hit and, thanks to the water they contained, they did not travel very long, no matter the force they were hit with...

All the while, our "lovely" teacher was warming himself, wearing his parka, in one of the small bungalows around the courts that we used to change clothes in...
Stupid bugger!

But the best part came a couple weeks after this particular episode...

He had an examination, OFSTED-style during another tennis session.

Whilst the inspector was here, our teacher turned into an other man -nice, gentle, caring!!!

I remember he helped us doing the correct moves is order not to hurt ourselves, even accompanying your arm during the gesture and all this with a smile and some nice words!!!

In hind sight, we should have made some allusions to the inspector; we were probably too nice to.

I have recently heard that he is still teaching at that particular school...

Be funky

M A D
(MAD Life -The Best Antidote To Happiness, Sat 21 Nov 2009, 8:22, 2 replies)

Two of the remedial kids at our school
got caught in flagrante fellatio in the shower. They both left for different schools shortly afterwards.

The showers were always a source of terror, even when they weren't being used for underage gay sex. Towel-flicking and gobbing were rampant, and lobbing someone's pants into the shower, and then turning on the water as they ran in to retrieve them, was the summit of hilarity.

One of the PE teachers also knocked out a lippy kid with the end of one of the gym ropes. AFAIK he kept his job because no-one was willing to testify against him and even the kid's parents knew he was a little shit.
(rogerzilla, Sat 21 Nov 2009, 7:23, Reply)

So, I did sports
I couldn't play football; I hated it. Therefore the gym teacher hated me. Pretty much the b3tan story so far.

Overtime the head of PE's resentment of me grew so much that whenever I had a doctor's appointment during the Games periods it'd end up with an argument in first break - none of the other kids argued with him, but I knew he was looked down upon by the other, academic, teachers as being a non-teacher in a school (now before you get the wrong idea, they respected the head porter as it was his job and he was damn good at it and a nice bloke, so it's not snobbery, they just disliked the cunt) so I knew I could get away, almost, with doing it. My argument somewhat hinged around what follows:
"Why are you booking appointment's during Games and not during any of your other lessons, huh?"
'Maybe it's because I'm doing public exams in the others.'
He didn't like this, it made him feel petty and small, what I think are the reasons why he liked to shout at young kids a lot.

But one day I had a Games option re-assignment, from some shitty football or such thing as given before, to a previously by invite only somewhat unspoken thing called "that games option". I mention somewhat unspoken because before I saw my name down for it I didn't even know it existed. It was only open to those that the teacher for that lesson took a liking to, and so to be thrust in there came as somewhat of a surprise.
The head of PE, it seems, was trying to make a statement - trying to make me so pissed off with this new Games option that I'd beg to return to football and grovel at his trainers. Especially as the PE teacher of this newfound Games option seemed a little peeved by having a few of us slackers thrust into his class who he didn't invite and who weren't oh so great at physical activities.

This teacher, however, was this goliath of a man called Winston who'd do all the exercises he assigned to you with you, as well as a little bit more, who introduced light sparring, weights and speed/power based activities to us and to egg us on with the press-ups would press-up, moving his body around in a circle, shouting BAM on each press. If you did something wrong he'd tell you, calmly and clearly, how to do it right and if you didn't like something he'd talk you into it anyway. And although he may not have liked an influx of slackers he tolerated us and showed us enough respect that we all soon learnt to look forward to Games.
He was the best PE teacher I'd ever had and it really showed in my massive change of physical condition, willingness to stay in shape since and in my habit of grinning at an increasingly pissed off head of PE until I left the school.

Lovely bloke with an actual desire to not only get you in shape, but teach you how to stay in shape and who had nothing to prove. Also, he was a real physical instructor and did the school stuff as a part-time job mostly because it was something he wanted to do.
(Frozen_Banana Shaved against the grain; thoroughly unrewarding., Sat 21 Nov 2009, 3:15, Reply)

Year 11 PE teacher
Was called Bambi.
(Ethelbert Q Humpington Ho, ha, guard, turn, parry, dart, spin, ha, thrust, Sat 21 Nov 2009, 2:50, 2 replies)

Dodgeball
There have been various people this week moaning about how their teacher hit them with an air-filled ball. Man the fuck up. I got hit in the bollocks with a fucking medicine ball at point blank range. THAT hurts.
( MatJ LOOK, Sat 21 Nov 2009, 2:21, Reply)

Grammar School PE
I dreaded PE. Now, I'm tall and thin, but back then I was small and podgy. We were made to have showers together which isn't all that good to self-concious mid-pubescent teens. Least of all when you have a crush on one of your classmates and you're desperate not to be discovered being gay. (when another pupil was found out, he was bullied mercilessly, supported by some of the twat teachers).

Well, the crush soon ended when one of the cool crowd did a shit in the gym sink and wrote his own name on the wall with the turd. Just goes to show. Even at 13, I knew that was hardly desireable. Having to share classes with these idiots was bad enough without having to get naked in front of them and see them throw their own shit against the wall like monkeys. Within a couple of years of them leaving school, most had kids and were forced into marriage with their munter wives. Sweet irony was just desserts for all the bullying and bruises I got in the changing rooms.

On top of this, we were made to do cross country. The idiot teachers gave up on me in the end. I'd just walk it.

Sheer fucking hell.

The only thing I liked was basketball. I found in my first year, I could shoot a hoop from a long way away. Again, the twat teachers simply weren't interested. And so, I gave up on sport altogether. Even now, I sometimes wonder if it had been encouraged how healthy I would be now.

God, I hated school.
(badfox1 wonders who he's played by this episode on, Sat 21 Nov 2009, 1:32, Reply)

shower boys get all the hugs :(
As a kid I was never very good at sports, I was always picked last for everything and did not really care about it. For some reason, even though I could hardly run 100 meters, I somehow could throw the javelin like a pro and always beat everybody at it with little effort.

And so I was part of the small group of javelin throwers (3 of us..)

I was always upset that I did not need to go get changed with the others as the javelin guys apparently did not sweat enough to require a shower compared to the football, rugby and gymnastic students. So we would go back straight to class.

For that reason I never felt part of the team.

2 years later I found out that 'the team' would often get a surprise shower visit from the teacher, Marcel (it was in France - not the monkey from Friends) who would caress them in strange places.

The guy was sacked as soon as somebody had the guts to tell their parents.

Javelin throw is a beautiful, beautiful discipline
(Omikron404, Sat 21 Nov 2009, 1:28, 1 reply)

Extreme DodgeBall
While the above may sound like fun, I and probably thousands of other guys who attended my old High School can assure you it is most definitely not. Especially when it was Mr Evans (real name, can't be arsed thinking of a false one) taking PE.

Now this guy was a prize arsehole. He was a typical bully who preyed on the weaker boys in our class and would find great pleasure in mocking the kids who couldn't climb the ropes. Most of us would have no problem with the ropes but there were those that struggled, in particular one of our classmates S. S was an Indian kid and rather over-weight and when it was his turn to climb he would struggle big time, he could only manage to sit on the knot tied at the bottom unable to lift his bulk upwards. He would just sit there on the rope looking longingly at the ceiling as if trying to will himself to the top.

One day when S was dangling at the bottom, obviously fucking mortified once again and close to tears, Mr Evans decides to shout

'Come on S look at the state of you. You look like a gorilla swinging in the jungle'.

Prick.

DodgeBall though was the worst. A hard plastic volleyball would be used and the rules were that Mr Evans would hurl the ball as hard as he could whilst terrified bare-chested boys would run like fuck to escape the incoming projectile. This was really sore if it caught you and could sting for days after if you got a sore one. One time He targeted another classmate D and walloped him a good few times full pelt, the fourth or fifth time though he hit D right in the stomach causing D to cry. For this he got called a poof by our good teacher and ended up with a massive fucking bruise which was almost black by the end of the day.

Next PE lesson and D had quite rightly decided to play a bit of truancy that day and upon noticing his absence, Mr Evans asked of his whereabouts. We told him that D had been rushed to hospital the night before because he was pissing blood. We also said something about potential internal damage. That was the only time I have ever seen the colour literally drain from a persons face, it was a glorious fucking picture ladies and gentlemen.

Of course he would find out soon enough that it was a lot of shite, but for that one instant the look of shock and sheer terror on that cunts face will stay with me always. :D
(Helmut McBucket invites you to pull his finger on, Sat 21 Nov 2009, 1:15, Reply)

sadists
small for my age, always picked last for teams, made to run round the track on my own because i wasn't picked. I always marvelled at how Mrs Linseys and Ms Vikabitch's arses were so huge when they were supposed to be exercising every day. Sadistic useless bitches.hope they're dead by now.
(cherrypie, Sat 21 Nov 2009, 1:14, Reply)

They gave up
Hated it of course... it's THE place for arrogant twats and bullies - and those are just the teachers.

But in the final year we won. In Year 11 they finally got the hint - I and a couple of others were a lost cause, definitely not interested and by this point obviously never going to be, and certainly not going to be world class football/rugby players. Our PE teacher that year agreed to concentrate his resources on making those who were interested/good at it even better, and allowed us to sit in the changing rooms doing homework from other subjects.

We honestly did, half the time (and pissing about the rest of the time, as you'd expect). It was brilliant - homework was an arse, but much less of an arse than PE and far better when we could do it in school time instead of at home.
(Cloudane, Sat 21 Nov 2009, 1:00, Reply)

Ms. Mcgrurie
Or whatever here nom de plume was, dependant on how her freakish marriage went.

This woman single-handedly put me off hot-pants for life by forcing herself into shorts Kylie would have winced at, then splitting her cervix in front of the class of boys uniwttingly assigned to her care in the name of warming up.

To this day I cannot and will not accept a vagina that has hair past the pubis or enroaches upon the thigh.

Periodically I may enthuse upon the virtues of an unshaven mound - this is quickly cured very swiftly upon closer examination.

Euuuuugh.
(mymilkshakebringsallthemongstotheyard poison hearts, poison minds - joining hate, Sat 21 Nov 2009, 0:36, Reply)

I'm still in school
An all-girls school. And there is one particular female PE teacher that is no longer aloud be present in the changing rooms while people are changing because so many girls complained that she was staring at them.
(Violet kicks arse for the Lord, Sat 21 Nov 2009, 0:34, Reply)

Mr. Edgar
Latent paedo.

Circuit training an entire room of 14 year old boys for two hours, sans t-shirts, is not normal. Nor is taking photos of them, jumping over various aerobic obstacles, for the (ahem) school magazine.

Hated the cnut with a vengeance, especially so after threatening me with expulsion for wearing a band t-shirt, proclaiming "FUCKING HOSTILE" in foot tall letters on the rear.

Euuugh.
(mymilkshakebringsallthemongstotheyard poison hearts, poison minds - joining hate, Sat 21 Nov 2009, 0:24, 1 reply)

Proving Stereotypes ARE real.
A couple of years after I left school, I found out my PE teacher was done for cottaging in the public bogs. That is all.
(13thfloor, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 23:56, 1 reply)

The Curious Incident of the Golden Delicous in the Rugby Pitch
I've never really been the athletic sort - if I was given a choice between curling up with a decent book or go stomping through the mud trying to kick a ball between a couple of poles while a couple of kids from the housing estate tried to practice their mugging techniques on you, you could find me in library everytime. Still, I couldn't get away with it all the time, and I'd usually be coerced into joining in for football or rugby. I kept getting told I'd be perfect for the rugby squad, considering at the time I was built like the proverbial. However, I'd also been graced with a mind that knew the best way to avoid getting hurt (I'm a self-confessed coward when it comes to pain) is to do a lot of screaming and running a long way from the ball. Funilly enough, I never played more than one match in the squad, but that didn't stop the teachers trying to keep me in the training in case I got the hint.

However, even they gave up after one particular training exercise. We'd been playing a small 5-a-side game and for once I'd actually been enjoying things. It's possibly for this reason I was acting a little less cautious than usual, and actually being close enough to the ball to be considered fair game. I'm fairly slow on my feet, but I'm causing trouble and liking it - hey, this isn't so bad after all. Then I decide to actually tackle someone, how hard can it be? Problem is, someone else has decided to do the exact same thing.

Picture the scene - a group of 15-year-old boys, roaring with pubescent testosterone playing around with an odd shaped ball (quiet at the back). One of them finally tears away from the mob with it, and is charging straight up the pitch. But watch as the defenders move in to intercept - coming in from the left is our hero in this tale, yelling like a loon and almost salivating with adrenaline. coming in from the right is the school Knob, whose only passions in life include sport and riding anything that looks female. They're bothing big and fast, so this is going to be brutal. The attacker slips past both of them by a hair's breadth.

Inertia's a bitch sometimes. I had enough time to register this blur in front of me as my target slipped away, and possibly just enough time to think "oh sh-" before I collided tete-a-tete with Knob. Luckily for him, his brain was stored somewhere in the region of his boxers, so had little more than a headache for his trouble. Me, on the other hand, was knocked clean out, somehow managing to crumple into the recovery position (something that my PE teacher was a little impressed/disturbed by). I wake up a couple of seconds later with a blinding headache, surrounded by a group of teammates. Everything looks fine - just before someone shouts "Jesus Christ, look at that!", followed shortly by several people getting out their camera phones. Not a good sign. I reach up to my head to find someone has somehow shoved an apple under my skin, and it takes me a few seconds for my mildly-concussed mind to figure this one out. Oh dear.

One visit to the A&E courtesy of an ambulance, a couple of X-rays and a panic-stricken mum later, and I've been released from hospital after being given the all clear for concussion. I then spent the next two days with a migrane in bed while the lump faded (not entirely - still slightly raised where it used to be). After that, I gave up on the idea of dangerous sports - at least, until I discovered the awesomeness that is fire poi...

Length? About 5 seconds between nothing and Granny Smith
(Nykrus, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 23:50, Reply)