*splat*
Luke, in my year at school, was a monumental cunt. Charming and sweet and a straight-A student, people had nary a bad word to say about him. Other than me, who hated him as equally as he hated me for the six-year hate campaign he took it upon himself to orchestrate (even after he emigrated to Canada after our GCSEs) and had all the bad words to say about him no one else would - manipulative, arrogant, pretentious, closeted, small-minded, conniving fucking cunt being a small sample. This is a tale of the one glorious time his arrogance got the better of him.

Sports Day rolled around one summer, and aside from those of us who had sufficiently injured themselves to be excused or whose mothers were overprotective enough to prevent them going near patches of grass lest it agitate their hayfever, it was time to be press-ganged into the various sports that we didn't want to take part in. I managed to escape it this year thanks to having a twisty ankle, and was delighted to find the anorexic-looking, weak as a kitten Luke had been selected for the 500m sprint. He was not best impressed until he remembered that this would offer him a chance to show off his skillz (for one of the boys who was always seen in the back of the crowd when the boys played rugby, flanked by the equally slow fat bastard Stalker Boy, and some of the less sportingly inclined boys who would have been far happier in the IT suite playing LAN Tiberian Sun, he suddenly viewed himself as Mr Motivator).

On the day itself, the vast majority of us are skiving off and sitting in the stands with a glazed look of boredom on our faces (there was to be no water, even in the baking heat, no work, no Game Boys, no phones, and iPods hadn't yet been thought of), as all we were allowed to do was cheer for our house in the most half-arsed imitation of something house-y from Harry Potter. The 500m rolls around and sure enough, Luke astounds us all by pushing straight out in front, limbs flailing and doing a good impression of a stick insect on a bed of coals. The girls who constituted his "fan club" (who he insulted constantly, called slappers and prostitutes and treated marginally better than me - hello, mummy issues) were, naturally, pandering and waving and chanting his name.

True to form and probably sporting a boner from this stroking of his already ridiculously oversized ego, Luke turns his head to wave to the stand, gives the thumbs-up and begins to mouth "I'm brilliant!".

Except he gets halfway through saying what he needs to say, and falls arse over head just before the finish line, dropping from first to an embarrassing eighth, via a face full of springy tarmac. Beautiful.

An eerie gasp drops over the stand, before being broken by an increasingly loud *pfffffffffffft* of laughter where I, in absolute stitches from what I've just seen, look up to find at least ten beady pairs of female eyes staring me down as if I had just fed their entire families to a leopard for laughing at their leader's fall from grace.
( Maladicta, Sun 20 Dec 2009, 20:18, 2 replies)

Everyone knows
LAN Tib Sun is where it's at.
(Evilweevil is covered in bees, Sun 20 Dec 2009, 21:26, closed)

Totally.
Sport can fuck right off, I want to blow shit up!
( Maladicta, Wed 23 Dec 2009, 22:33, closed)