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

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

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

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

*twitch*

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

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

“Yes.”

“Yes, WHAT?”

“Sir.”

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

Neat turps.

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

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

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