b3ta.com qotw
You are not logged in. Login or Signup
Home » Question of the Week » School Days » Popular | Search
This is a question School Days

"The best years of our lives," somebody lied. Tell us the funniest thing that ever happened at school.

(, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 12:19)
Pages: Latest, 25, 24, 23, 22, 21, ... 1

This question is now closed.

The Headmaster
I'll get it off my chest nice and early. You know the kid in class who always turned up early to lessons, handed homework in on time and showed an interest in what he was taught? I was one of those guys. Hell, I still am and I'm comfortable with my existence.

As you can imagine, I was bullied from the ages of 7 to 17, which I took in my stride. There weren't many people in my life who supported me through those dark years; my father was abusive and my mother would quickly change the subject to how my complaining was making her want to leave home. The only two people I could confide in were my doctor (a thoroughly caring guy who has guided me through several cases of depression), and the headmaster of my primary school, Mr. Dodds.

He was a modern day Churchill, a stout ex-squaddie who would address every lass as 'darling' and start any conversation with a handshake. To me, he was the father figure I'd always wanted, and I idolised the man. I got a lot of stick for it from minds too feeble to grasp the concept of respect.

And then one day my mind just snapped. It was a damp spring day in 1996, and I was a 9 year old Foxy who had spent the morning frustratingly staring at cards of dots and told to recall the number I saw. I didn't see anything. I saw dots. Lots of little brown dots. After a lot of 'are you sure you can't see anything?'s from the man in the suit, I was diagnosed as colourblind and returned to class with a letter. Handing it over to my teacher, she read it aloud to the class, explaining that as I was now 'too retarded to even see properly', she would no longer address me as a member of this school. I did what every 9 year old would do in that case; I cried in front of a class of 30 laughing children. I ran from the room, slunk in the shadows in the playground and prayed for the day to end.


Next thing I know, I'm on the floor. I'm bleeding from the back of my head. Maybe this is my punishment for being retarded. Pulled up by my hair, I'm held against the wall while the brains of the operation does a number on my ribs.

'You're a retard Foxy and we all hate you. Your mum hates you. Your dad hates you. Even Dodds hates you.'

And then I lost control. A man who embraces the principles of respect and understanding has no room for hate in his life, and his name would not be spoken in vain. That was the one moment of my life where, for several beautiful minutes, I woke up. There was no ripping of shirts as I mutated into a 10ft behemoth of brutality, I simply lost all reasoned thought. Shaking off my oppressors, I grabbed the closest one I could and threw him to the floor. Grabbing his head, I thrusted it up and down against the drain cover. Up and down. Over and over. Again and again. My hands were stained with shards of milk teeth and blood when I was finally pulled off the now unconcious body and I was thrown into the headmaster's office.

I was in the shit now.

Dodds braced into the room, sat down on his upholstered chair, and extended his arm. I expected a belt across he head or two, just like back home. Just like I deserved for making a student leave school in an ambulance. I must've stared at his palm long enough to count the hairs on his knuckles. It silently hung in the air, waiting for me to react.

'Foxy, you're one of the few people in this establishment who is going to do something with his life, and there will always be people trying to stop you. What you did today I spent every day for the last 2 years hoping you'd get the nerve to do. Well done at growing some balls finally. Now get back to class'

I shook his hand and left.
(, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 14:51, 17 replies)
Freak bites back with atomic toilet
I could begin by trying to describe what it feels like to be very, very badly bullied.

The way I walked was funny, the way I spoke was funny, the way I crossed my legs was funny, the bag I carried was funny, the way I ate a sausage roll was funny.
I was funny-looking.

And the bitches just laughed and laughed at me. Every day. For seven years.

This one goes out to all the B3tans who don’t need to be told what that's like. If you are nodding and getting a sick, sad feeling inside – in the place where you would keep your happy memories, if you had any – then this revenge story is for you.

A core pod of bully-girls, the ones who humiliate you for the amusement of the rest of your school, always contains one key character : the one who is smarter than her gibbering goon-friends. She hates you (or not, I mean, lets face it, you are just lower in the food-chain). This is the person that your mammy tries to tell you is just jealous because you are so pretty and clever. Yeah right, ma. She comes up with the taunts that her peroxide lackeys hurl at you.

Can you fly without your broomstick, Goth?

It’s never *her* that pours a can of fanta into your bag; but she’s right there watching when it starts to soak through. Let’s call her Emma. You know why.

In my final year I had a massive nervous breakdown and ended up in a mental hospital for a while, following a suicide attempt. I am informed in retrospect that some of my year were very sorry indeed.

Who would of thought she’d try to top herself?
I mean, she always thought of something clever to shout back at us, right?

I sat my A levels in a private room for my own safety.

At the end of the year Emma threw a massive party. Whole year invited. Her family was so rich she had her own little studio flat and party room in the grounds of their mansion. It was going to be a big night. I was phoned by some of the kinder girls, written to by the head-girl. Would I please come? They wanted to see if I was OK.

I went. Oh hell I went. I thought I’d be able to have a nice night with some of the solid, kindly types, the prefects, those that would never have stuck fanny-pads to my back but couldn’t let me sit with them in school anyway. I was just too dark, too angry, too fecking cynical.

The party was awful, just awful. Anyone read Carrie?

The bullies were drunk and they tore me to shreds. Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Was the loony-bin like prison? Did you have to lez up? Bet you liked that, yeah? I heard they sectioned you because you ate your own shit? Give her a plastic cup, you can’t trust the crazies with real glass. Go home, bitch.

I got my coat.

In the hall toilet, not crying. Just too tired for any more.

My gaze fell on the bottle of bubble bath sitting on the sill. Barely thinking, barely breathing, I shifted the lid of the toilet cistern and tipped the whole lot in.

I was half way down the drive-way when the screaming started, but I heard all the details from survivors in the following days. Drunken bitches go to the toilet *in groups* Oh thank-you Jesus.

It was apocalyptic.

Within ten minutes the whole of the downstairs was filled to shoulder height with piss flavoured foam.


And, unbelievably, they never worked out who did it. Loads of drunks, gate-crashers and pranksters to choose from, see? And I’d already gone home.

So that, my dear, dear friends, is how to get your own back. Drown the bullies in fluffy sewage at the biggest party of their young lives. The shock, the panic, the wails of horror. The sliding in it, the wet, straggled hair. Mascara running down sticky cheeks as the fire brigade screech up out of the night.

I felt much, much better.
(, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 19:00, 6 replies)
my friend's brother, warren
was training to be a teacher at a skanky school in north manchester. during one of his assessed classes, one of the kids leaned over and let out the longest knee trembler of a fart in the world.

the inspector did not laugh. the headmaster, who happened to be in the room, did not laugh. the kid did not laugh. amazingly, the other kids did not laugh.

warren, on the other hand, was bent double against the wall, tears pouring down his cheeks.

a few weeks later, having passed the course, he was interviewing for the job. there were 3 candidates in total. as they arrived, one of the children was being hustled into a police car. the female candidate got straight back in her car and left.

this left warren and the other. at the lunch, the other guy was chatting to the headmaster. he took a huge bite of his enormous sandwich, and mayonnaise and tuna squirted out of the other end and landed straight on the headmaster's shiny shiny shoes.

warren said you could literally see the headmaster thinking, fuck me, which idiot do i hire... the one who laughs at farts, or the one who can't even eat a sandwich??
(, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 12:42, 8 replies)
The Gentleman's Guide
*Warning* Long post ahead! No refunds if disappointed!

About a year ago, a friend of mine called Stuart (no protection required) was caught running in the corridor at lunch chasing another friend playfully. Hardly a horrific crime, but both of them were pulled up and told to write an essay about the correct way in which a corridor was to be used.

They clearly did not see the potential for piss-taking evident to the rest of us.

After a lengthy discussion the following period, it was decided that I would take on writing duties for one of the essays. The other was given to someone else, who came back after the weekend with a philosophical debate on whether or not morality in a corridor was any different to morality when not in a corridor (or something like that), probably with the conclusion being that no-one cared anyway.

I, however, spent a weekend with my brother and a thesaurus producing the following, which some people suggested be put in the yearbook, it became such a meme in our year. My maths teacher read it when it was left lying around by accident, chuckled, and almost took it to the maths base with him to show off to the other teachers. So, ladies and men-folk, I present The Gentleman's Guide (imagine in the font "Blackadder" or similar):


The Art Of Strolling In A Gentlemanly Fashion: A Gentleman's Guide to Proper Conduct, Etiquette & Manners in a Corridor or Hallway Environ

When strolling down, through or in a corridor, one should always maintain a dignified and calm personal air whilst also seeking to present only the utmost decorum and social graces to one's fellow corridor- or hallway-strollers. This brief, yet indispensable, enchiridion shall hopefully serve to furnish a Gentleman with a complete and thorough understanding of the right, proper and cultivated conduct, etiquette and manners to be observed in all corridor- or hallway-related scenarios which may be encountered: crucially, the key differences to be observed when strolling by oneself; with fellow strolling habitués; or when the accompaniment or chaperoning of a Lady is called upon.

There are numerous techniques, too many to recount in full, for strolling, with various methods from as far and wide as Lancashire, Cornwall and the Earldom of Wessex (even the barbaric and primitive Pictish "peoples" have attempted to have their say in this matter!) becoming more and more popular, despite some of the simplicity and brutishness involved in a great many of these cases. However, there is only one stroll in Our King's England (God Save The King!) which truly signalises one as a Gentleman: The Buckinghamshire Gait.

The Buckinghamshire Gait is the one truly civilised stroll fit for a Gentleman's use. It involves precision, care and attention to minute details: all of which must be given equal care and attention.

Firstly, as we all know, the Devil makes work for idle hands, so a Gentleman must keep his attention held on presenting himself in the correct manner: a Gentleman's right hand should be kept in his waistcoat pocket, while his left hand is kept by his side with the handle of his walking cane cradled in the palm of his hand while the shaft rests along his forearm.

Secondly, one step of a Gentleman's stride should not exceed five-sixths of an Ell from back heel to front toe-tip, with each step taking the same passage of time as the repetition of the word "straw-berrie" in one's head. This should be adjusted accordingly (coupleing a shorter step-length with a slower step) when strolling with shorter or older Gentlemen, to allow them to maintain a comfortable and leisurely pace at their full stride. The time taken for a single step should be doubled when strolling with Lady company, in order that the Lady companions may be kept from swooning as a result of the ensuing high heart-pace.

Criterion the third: a sensible pace (described above) should be kept at all times for the sake of any ladies in the vicinity of a solitary strolling Gentleman - the Gentleman may accidentally create a gust which could indecently expose the Lady's ankles to any ruffian or scalliwag who might dare take a gander.

Criterion the fourth: if a Gentleman is chaperoning a Lady, he should remove his right hand from his waistcoat pocket and hold it in a protective fist on his chest, which should be protruding further than is normal. This allows the Lady to use the Gentleman's arm as a support for her own dainty "stroll" while feeling fully shielded and sheltered by her Gentleman companion.

N.B. The Shropshire Stride (recognisable by its greater stride-length, hastier pace and lack of hat-doffing) is permissable only under extreme duress and in the most dire of circumstances, e.g. when one is delayed in attending a dining function and would otherwise be thought of as a laggard by other esteemed guests, or when one has reserved a seat in the travelling carriages of a locomotive engine which is in danger of being missed. However, it is imperative that this stroll be avoided when in the accompaniment of a Lady due to the heightened pace.

Once a Gentleman is strolling correctly in a corridor or hallway, he must then focus his mind on obeying the following Etiquette:

I. A Gentleman should acknowledge all other corridor- or hallway-strollers with a doff of his hat and a hearty "Good Morning!" or "Hullo!". Only when a Gentleman is employing the Shropshire Stride can this be overlooked, rude as it may be. This shall alert all other corridor- or hallway-strollers to the Gentleman's haste and therefore provide them with the opportunity to clear a path for him.

II. If a Gentleman is accompanying a Lady, the Lady should be kept to the inside of the corridor or hallway in order to keep her away from any other persons travelling in the opposite direction. If this requires the Gentleman to switch his stance so his right arm carries his cane and his left arm steadies the Lady, so be it.

III. If a Gentleman should happen to meet one of his chums or Ladyfriends in a corridor or hallway, it is impolite to stand and chatter, as this hinders the strolling of all other corridor- or hallway-users. Therefore, it is only punctilious for the Gentleman to either (in the case of the Gentleman being in a great haste) explain this swiftly to his acquaintance or (if the Gentleman has time to spare) to stroll with his acquaintance to their destination before returning on his way to his own.


Stuart handed it in, and didn't get any hassle. Presumably the bitch just threw them in the bin the moment she got her hands on them :(.

The most-asked question by my classmates who read it was: "Is the Shropshire Stride real?" (No, it isn't. I made it all up, you twunt)

The mini-meme produced may have had some momentum added when, on casual friday a few weeks later, I turned up in the afternoon (having gone home & changed) dressed in my full gentleman finery, including pocket-watch, cufflinks and waistcoat (mostly belonging to my brother).

Length? Five-sixths of an Ell, didn't you pay attention?

First time, please be gentle, etc.
(, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 17:58, 6 replies)
Sex Education: in History class…

My school life social fund was financed privately through the fledgling business of ‘Pooflake Vids ltd.’.

Fiendish in it’s simplicity, it was a door-to-door piracy franchise, where chums would pony up the dough for the latest pirate copy of Ghostbusters II or suchlike, which they could happily watch with their parents…even borrow the money for it…but the kids themselves would know that if they fast-forwarded 15 minutes past the end credits there would be a carefully-added 30 minute-snippet of rubbish 70’s grumble flick; with which they could peruse later whilst tugging themselves into a blurry adolescent mist.

I felt I was providing an all-round family service

As an early teen with two VCRs I spent hours mercilessly tape-to-taping my dad’s crappy scudvids until you couldn’t make out the money shots anymore through the on-screen fuzz, (and occasional accidental over-recording of ‘Songs Of Praise’). The kids would provide their own blank tapes and I would charge £5 a pop. Everybody wins.

However, a downside of this ‘booming bishop-bashing business bonanza’ was that I became quickly desensitised to the ways of pr0nnage. I thought that nothing could shock me anymore…

Until one gloomy morning…in history class...

I was already made to sit at the very front with Mark (who later became the guitarist in our band) because we were the ‘disruptive’ children…but in this particular lesson, Mark had decided to enhance the learning experience by sneaking in a special piece of literature to ‘aid our study’.

And so it was during a particularly mundane lecture on the Middle East that Mark nudged me and whispered:

“Psst, Pooflake, look at this” and he slid a magazine onto my lap.

Now I may not be quickest on the uptake, but it soon became apparent that I had been handed a hard-core ‘art’ mag …as the first page was displaying a rather uncomfortable-looking lady…with her head on the floor and her jotter in the air as if she was in the middle of performing a 'backwards roll'.

However, I fear that if she had chosen to continue with the aforementioned gymnastic routine, her manoeuvre would have ended quite painfully, considering the two gargantuan red dildos sticking out of her dungfunnel at an obtuse angle, making her overall bodyshape resemble a strange sort of ‘over-inflated ‘V’ sign’…pointed with malice in the direction of the grinning moustachioed gentleman who was busying himself by 'crashing his yogurt truck' over the base of her spine.

Now, although I was well-versed in the ways of general filth, Jazz and grotmag-ery, this was still a new and interesting visual experience…for a school day anyway.

Glancing across such frolics and frivolity during class quite took me aback, don’t you know. After weighing up the scenario, and carefully measuring the restraint required considering my surroundings, I decided to adopt the appropriate procedure, which was to have my eyes nearly pop out of their sockets, gasp loudly and mouth the words “Fucking HELL!” towards my smirking classmate.

With the mag on my lap, I began to leaf through the pages and quickly felt the stirrings of an inevitable side-effect (that I’m sure to this day is still a rarity for a lecture on the Arab-Isreali conflict…)

I had initiated the ignition / launch procedure for a stupendous throbbing lob-on of epic proportions.

Of course, not being the best multi-tasker in the world (i.e a male), it soon came to pass that I was dedicating more of my time to the magazine, and less to the plight of the Arabs…(or was it the Isrealis?)

There I was, not three feet from my rambling teacher, panting like a dog in a hot car, with the tip of my tongue poking out the side of my mouth, a veritable Trident missile ready to fizz in my clouts, my peepers fixated on my crotch area and the ‘glazed over’ gurn of a freshly ‘fruited up’ mong after an exhaustive bout of the ‘soggy biscuit’ game.

Amongst the sighs, the squirming on my seat and the occasional rustling sound of pages being moved 90 degrees (to maximise centrefold viewing), it was not very long before the teacher noticed something was amiss.

She glanced around to see a room of attentive young eyes, before her gaze fell upon the hulking mound of perspiring love-blubber, in a world of his own and squelching about at the front of the class.

“POOFLAKE!” bellowed the teacher “WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT?”

I recoil in shock, my head twisting upwards sharply until I’m staring directly into her enraged, squinty eyes.

erm…” I reply.

“STAND UP, BOY!” she shrieked.

“Ooh…I’d rather not” I begged.

“DO IT!” she screamed.

I slowly rise to my feet, and discovered that somewhere along my journey of erotic enlightenment, my swollen bell-end had escaped through the piss-slit in the middle of my boxers, and was now pressed firmly against the slack material in my grey school trollies. Nothing was left to the imagination. I don’t mean to brag, but I could’ve had someone’s eye out.

I watched as her line of view slowly tracked downwards towards my near-exploding, diamond-cutting pink granite tentpole that was just one thin layer of cheap fabric away from filling the entire classroom with it’s bulging veiny manliness.

She said nothing for a moment, (I’d like to think it took her breath away). Then she reached out and snatched the ‘saucy self-help pamphlet’ from my sweaty clutches.

The class sat in total silence (with the exception of Mark, who in support of my plight had decided to rectally prolapse with badly-stifled laughter) as she scanned across some of the pictures…pictures of which without closer inspection looked more like a soft-lens, close up mish-mash montage of arms, legs, a snifter of chuff-fluff and enough chopped liver to feed every old folk’s home from here to Mozambique.

She remained speechless. My eyes went bloodshot with shame and my face scorched to such a degree that I actually suspected that it could set off the smoke alarms.

Oh yes. I was in trouble.

I was told that the deputy head would send for me later in the day after they had discussed what to do with me.

So far this story is fairly run-of-the-mill...

Here is where it gets weird.

After all that, I left school that day totally unpunished. But THREE, (count ‘em) THREE teachers made a special effort to individually and privately ‘interview’ me on the events that had occurred that day.

I spent the afternoon sat in a cold, pokey little secondary staff room whilst one after the other the men entered…each with dilated pupils and a ‘strange’ fixed expression on their faces…

But there was no scathing lecture on the exploitation of women, punctuated with mournful commentary about how I'd 'not just let myself down, but I'd let the whole school down'. There was no ‘Where did you get the mag?’ or even a: ‘What do you think your parents would say?”.

After long, deliberate pauses, they each asked me questions like:

“How did the pictures make you feel?”

“Desrcibe exactly what was going through your mind as you looked at the photos?”

“What did the images make you want to ‘do’?”

WTF? One even asked me with a scary smirk: “What would you do if you were actually there when these photographs were being taken?”…and “What would you say to these women if you met them ‘in the flesh’?”

What did they expect me to say?...That I’d suddenly developed an inexplicable craving for cream pie?...That from now on, every time I saw the ‘V' Sign (Churchill / Liam Gallagher) I would get an erection?...That the whole sordid commotion made we want to whop my cock out in class and spray soupy schlong-syrup into the teacher’s handbag?

I just shrugged and mumbled: “I dunno…I dunno” to every.single.question.

They then let me go with nothing more than a mild ticking off (but of course they kept the mag).

I brielfy contemplated this bizarre, excruciating experience…before I sprinted out to spread the word of the twisted pervy teachers and their foul depravity of trying to get their kicks by listening to me talk about dildos and wotnot.

On reflection…perhaps they were just trying to make me feel incredibly uncomfortable in an effort to scare me off porn for life…

And if that was their plan…it certainly worked.

Nowadays I can only get a stonk-on watching vids of psychiatrist sessions and old wartime interrogation scenes.
(, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 11:09, 9 replies)
I always fondly remember
strapping fireworks to the class mong and watching him flapping up and down the corridor trying to pat them out with his little flipper hands.

Happy days.

Well, it was funny until the headmaster caught me red handed and told me I'd never work in his school again.
(, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 13:05, 4 replies)
My Teenage Cancer Scare

When I was fifteen I developed an epididymal cyst, which was basically a lump...

...in my bollocks.

I remember having a rummage round in the shower, as was my custom, and found I had three testicles. Woooo!!! Thought I. Thinking I was some kind of ultimate sex machine, some sort of living cum cannon, able to shoot jizz up walls indefinitely.

But then, after the initial excitement, I realised this was fucking serious.

I kept it to myself for a while, not knowing what the hell to do. It took me a few days to tell my good mates at school that I'd found something alarming in my ball bag.

I wanted a second opinion and I've never been a shy boy, so I whipped my hairy plums out for my mates to take a good look at.

The general consensus was that I was fucked. I had, indeed, developed a new testicle sized growth as if from thin air.

It was at round this time, while my mates were examining the family jewels, that Mr Pentillo, the cunt of a music teacher, clapped his sweaty paw on my shoulder and hauled me off to the Head's office.

Apparently showing your mates your balls during lunch is frowned upon in decent society.

There was even the suggestion of a criminal offence having taken place.

I remember explaining to the Head my medical problem, I even offered to show him the evidence, but he hastily declined and looked scared.

Instead, he reached for the phone and called my mum.


It took her ten minutes to get to the school. She was not happy. I recall sitting in the Head's office with her while he explained the situation in hushed tones. It suddenly occured to me I wasn't in trouble. Far from it. The Head and my dear old mum were just concerned about me.

I was sent home and an urgent visit to the doctors was arranged. Time off school! Fucking result!!!

A hellish few days passed and I discovered I had this epididymal cyst thing, not cancer. A simple outpatient procedure to drain the fluid and I was fine.

A few weeks later I remember sitting round the house with my mum when she looked at me with THAT LOOK, the one she reserved for when I'd done something really a) stupid, b) evil, or c) weird.

"Spanky," she started.

"Yes, Mum..." My spider sense was well and truly tingling.

"When we were at your school that day the headteacher said something that's been on my mind..."

Oh, FUCK!!! I couldn't remember him saying anything incriminating. I strained my brain, trying to think back to the meeting. All I could remember was nice gentle tones, even the offer of a cup of tea. Absolutely nothing that warrented THE LOOK.

"Oh, what did he say, Mum?" I replied as casually as possible.

"He said you'd been showing your testicles to people at school..."

"Yes, Mum. You know that. I was scared about this cyst..." I felt the clenching in my arse subside, I was off the hook.

But my mum perservered.

"The Head said something odd. He said one word which confused me..."


I prepared myself, as my mum looked at me and almost whispered...

"He said you'd been showing your testicles to people at school AGAIN...."

FUCK!!! I very nearly shat myself.

My mum leaned closer.

"....what did he mean by AGAIN, Spanky?"

EDIT: Check your balls, gentlemen...(or get someone else to do it for you, its much more fun).
(, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 22:17, 5 replies)
When I was studying my A levels,
one of the subjects I had the misfortune to choose was Biology.

It was okay - there were only 7 of us in my class, which meant that on last period on a Friday our teacher found it easier to take us down the local and lecture us about photosynthesis, the myelin sheath and acetylcholine over a few games of pool and a pint...all was well.

Towards the end of the A Level, the entire group of Biology students (my class and three others) had the misfortune to have to go to a study camp in Wells-Next-The-Sea in order to study marshland flora and fauna.

We were strictly grouped into boys and girls dorms - heaven forbid we should try some Biology practical...

The boys' dorm was a series of four rooms, three of which contained three beds, one containing two. There were ten of us. One lad, whom I shall call David, for that was his name, took it upon himself to claim the two bedroom room for his own...which was fine with the rest of us, as he had all the personality of a small, elderly and rather startled looking daschund.

The first day went fine - much scouting about for small insects, samphire and easy local girls.

I tend not to sleep well in strange places, particularly when inundated with the night farts and sweaty feet smell of two other teenage lads, so got up early and went to the newsagents to buy a paper. As in those days I was a pretentious cunt, I bought a copy of the Times. This was when it was only in it's broadsheet incarnation.

After reading said paper, I wandered in the hallway to discover that the door to David's room opened inwards. Out of sheer boredom and buggerment, I decided to paper his doorway with the Times. 40 minutes later, a small group of us stood outside to listen.
The door opened. A small voice did cry forth "You bastards!" and a finger poked it's way through the gap.

Day Two, Same Thing. Fist punches through.

Day Three - Ditto.

Days four to nine - Getting progressively braver, David has gone from punching to kicking paper doorway, to marching straight through.

Days Ten to Twelve - Marching has been replacing by the pattering of feet not unlike Scrappy Doo and his puppy power, before David leaps head first through paper like a birthing superhero.

Day Thirteen - I get up extra early and sniggering softly to myself, unplug the Drink Can vending machine from the hall way and wheel it this side of the paper.....

Cue sound of running feet. A brief silence as David goes airborne.
And then a sound like a watermelon being dropped from a height.

We cleared away the detritus.

The teachers found him nearly 40 minutes later, spread-eagled on the floor of his room.

He spent the next 3 months having physio and traction.

I have never admitted it was me until now. David - for what it's worth, I'm sorry.
But you were a cock.

/length, sorry etc.
(, Mon 2 Feb 2009, 22:35, 5 replies)
By the Hammer of Thor!
We had a substitute RE (Religious Education) teacher many a year ago whose name I can't remember, namely because it was unpronouncable on three quarters of the face of the Earth. All I can recite is that he had a face like a chihuahua, which promptly got the class to address him as 'Mr. Chihuahuaface'. As a sign of how tolerant he was, he'd go on to introduce himself as Mr Chihuahuaface to the other classes. He was, and I imagine still is, a bit of a ledge.

He'd been left to cover for our current RE teacher, who was several months up the duff. Her name was Miss Badcock, but that's a sniggering session for another day.

'Right class, the task you've been left with is to do a presentation on the Christian creation story...'
'Fantastic,' we thought. 'More tedious bollocks'
'However, as there are so many religions out there, it's highly possible that such dogma should not be taken for granted, and so go out and look at other creation stories and let us know what you think. Just to get you started, I'll do the first presentation next week'.

The next lesson, Chihuahuaface turns up in full Viking regalia, slams an inflatable hammer against the table and screams:

Behold mortals, I am Thor, conquerer of worlds! and proceeeds to give us the most incredible 30 minutes of our student lives.

God bless you Mr Chihuahuaface.
(, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 17:31, 2 replies)
I feel so embarrassed
I've never done this before, but I think it's time to repeat an story I've already told you (peaosomething, Word doesn't recognize it, is it real?)

Anyway, here it goes:

I have a few answers for this QOTW, but I’m too shy for this. Some of them involve being caught when having sex. Some of them vomiting in inappropriate places. However, the most embarrassing moment of my live happened when I was only 7 years old.


I was at school, wearing my school uniform. To this day I still can’t understand why my mother would insist on my wearing these very thick wool tights when the coldest temperature was 16degC. But there I was. My belly was feeling funny, so I tried the toilet, but it didn’t work. So back to the playground. I had a very vivid imagination (still have) and I liked being on my own. I think I would have been diagnosed with Autism if it wasn’t because my friends would drag me out of myself so I invented games for them.

So there I was, thinking my things outside the toilet. My belly feeling funny. And I farted. Just a little tiny fart, you know. Kid’s fart. And stay there, outside the toilet, thinking my things (I can see myself right now, with my face of “wonderland”). Then one of my friends called me to play, and I went.

While I was walking, I felt something strange under my pants. Mmmm… I touched and… OMG!!! How could that happened!! How could that be!! It couldn’t be true!!! All of a sudden, I had grown a little bunny’s tail!!!

My friend called me again and I forgot about it.

Lunch time passed; afternoon lessons too; and I went home, thinking, while walking, on my little bunny’s tail. Until it was bath time and my mother started undressing me. Suddenly she shouted “Abe!! What’s that!! You did a poo on your pants!!!”
“Really?” Said I with relief “I thought I had grown a little bunny’s tail!”

I didn’t understand my mother’s laugh; but slowly, very slowly, I started to realize what I had done. It took me time, but for days, weeks, months… what the hell! Still nowadays friends and family come and ask me for my little bunny’s tail. I’m 28. It stopped being funny the same day that it happened.

I’ve done things that would be embarrassing for a lot of people, but this one, by far, is the worst for me.

I can’t believe I’ve told you all about it.
(, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 14:04, 4 replies)
Just thought of one...

So there I was lying in bed being rudely awoken by my alarm clock, I get up have a shower and get dressed and go downstairs for breakfast.

When I get downstairs I say morning to my parents and eat the delicious breakfast my mother has made for me, say thanks and bid them goodbye.

I go out to the shed and get my bike out, saddle up and start on the 4 mile ride to school.

I used to enjoy the ride as I live in the countryside so you got to see all manner of wildlife (I'm into that sort of shit).

Anyway I digress, so there I am cycling along whistling away to myself when I get to the village that the school is situated in (Weaverham if you care) Cycle up Lime Avenue to the school gates....
and they're shut??? Strange, it's 8:40am, so someone should be here.

And then it dawned on me, there was nobody about because it was fucking Saturday!

By bloody parents had watched me go to school on a fucking Saturday!

8 fucking mile round trip!

I was pissed! (off)

I cycled back hone faster than I've ever gone before, I got to the driveway and cycled down it (We lived in a farmhouse) turned the corner and saw my Mother, Father and Sister stood on the doorstep laughing their heads off, Bastards!

I stormed in and refused to come out for the rest of the weekend.

They'd even gone to the trouble of ringing a neighbour (half a mile down the road) to get them to keep an eye out for me returning so they could be on the doorstep on my return and take the piss.


(, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 11:33, 6 replies)
Human Caterpillar
It was a quiet day in the sixth form common room so we thought we'd form a human caterpillar - you know, one crouches, the one in front puts his feet on the other's shoulders and so on (jesus, we must have been really bored). Anyway, Phil starts it by getting on his hands and knees ready for the next person. None of us think to inform him that the headmaster has just entered the room, accompanied by three stuffy-looking governors or parents or whatever, midway through a guided tour of the school.

They all stand over Phil who is still crouched, arse sticking in the air.

Blissfully unaware he implores loudly,

"Come on you cunts, get on!"
(, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 14:02, 2 replies)
Born to be a B3tard...

Picture the scene...the late 70's and it is class photo day. My proud mum has dressed little 6 year old me in my favourite' Action Man' army top.

I'm originally sat at the front and centre of the group but everytime the photographer yells for us all to say 'Cheese!' I belm. Hard. I can't help myself.

After a few failed attempts the photographer grasses me up and I'm eventually forced to stand next to the teacher so she can keep me in line...

But as the Photographer gave the fateful cue...

"Say Cheese!"

I just couldn't resist.

Unsurprisingly, when the developed prints finally arrived, I soon found myself on the arse end of a proper verbal kicking from my teacher, then the headmistress, then my parents and finally the parents of the other children in the class.

But all these years later...I still think it was worth it.
(, Mon 2 Feb 2009, 20:51, 24 replies)
Racist Taunts Recieved and Understood...
Picture this. Large bully, complete with his two backup thugs, corner little skinny funny-coloured kid. With only a small amount of prompting, the large bully manages to get a standard racist epithet out. Little skinny funny-coloured kid (OK, me) asks if he has any more. OK, that's the mental exertion for the day, and he decides to continue the conversation through the medium of fists. He accelerates towards me, leaking noise as he approaches. As he gets there, I step smartly aside, leaving him to faceplant the tarmac. It would seem I left a leg in his way. Oops.

He climbs to his feet, blinks until his brainstem is ready, and decides to swing a fist. It connects, hard. With the concrete pillar I had been standing in front of, until I ducked. Tragically poor pattern recognition meant that he had another go with the other hand. That went equally poorly, so he decided to try a headbutt. You know where this is going, don't you? I grabbed his arm, pulled him past me, and straight into the pillar again. He went down like a sack of potatoes. I looked at his wingmen (wingnuts?) and watched them walk away. There was no-one around, so I awarded him a bonus kick in the happy sacks and walked away too.

He spent two weeks in hospital, and never went near me again.

Teh funniez? He claimed he'd been set upon by six people, who'd beaten him up in an entirely unprovoked attack. Due to how badly he was battered, they believed it. I never admitted it to anyone other than my brother, and it's been my secret until now.
(, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 22:33, 6 replies)
My friend Chalky.
Probably the nicest bloke I know, and for this story alone he qualifies for legendary status.

There was a completely incompetent English teacher in my high school called Mrs Cook. Standing at all of four foot nine, she was known as "The Little Chef".

Chalky's register class was held in her room. She was typically late, and one morning our hero spotted the classroom keys on her desk. He swiped them and hid in wait in an adjoining corridor. As she entered the classroom and closed the door, Chalky locked it, trapping her and the rest of her register class, and wandered off to his first class of the day.

She set off her rape alarm (to quote a physics teacher "As if.") and eventually somebody came to free the hostages.

Word got round that Chalky was the perpetrator of this heinous crime, and he was called to the headmaster's office. Naturally he denied all knowledge and claimed that he'd been late in that day.

The headmaster looked him in the eye.

"Very well. We'll have to call in the police and fingerprint the keys. If we find your prints on the keys sitting on this desk, you are going to be in a lot of trouble. If I were you I'd own up now."

Chalky considered his position.

He reached across the desk, picked up the keys and asked "You mean these keys?"
(, Wed 4 Feb 2009, 13:59, 4 replies)
Pseudo miracle
I used to be a right sporty git; rugby twice a week, for club and school, same with hockey. Cycling 5 miles to and from school for a couple of years. All this ended when I was diagnosed with Osgood Schlatter's disease. Far from being the wasting away terminal illness it sounds like, it's actually an affliction of the knees, when your tendons can't keep up with your bone growth. The result is pain from running or impacts, and the more it hurts, the more it's going to hurt. I spent the best part of 4 years unable to sit comfortably in a car, because I could never straighten my legs out to get comfortable.

I couldn't really do anything active at all at this point. No sport involving running or even walking, staying inside to read at lunchtimes instead of facing an hour on my feet, it was pretty horrendous. I'd had more than enough so the next time we visited the hospital we made sure they did something. So I came away from that visit with one of my legs completely in plaster, from ankle to hip. I had to stay in that for 3 months, and they would put a new one on the other leg. Sound like fun? It was, actually. I imagine few of you have actually spent much time in a wheelchair, and whilst being wheelchair-bound is definitely not a barrel of laughs, I don't think I've ever had more fun than in a wheelchair when you're essentially OK, you've just been ordered to walk as little as humanly possible. This made for great entertainment. Watching people's faces when I had an R.E lesson upstairs; wheeling to the stairs, looking pitifully up them, swinging my leg round and walking straight on up (slowly, admittedly).

I became extremely good at wheelchair wheelies, eventually - after many cases of going over backwards - able to hold them indefinitely and go wherever I wanted on 2 wheels; even down stairs. My friends would push me round school at full tilt, once causing one of the tyres to pop off the rim and me to brown my pants.

So - the miracle. About a month or 2 in, I was wheeling round with Richard, a good friend, who volunteers to wheel me along a path as fast as he can. We build up speed until he's running completely flat out. The path was set at an angle next to the English block, so as we ran along it we got progressively closer to the building. We reach the end of the path, Richard probably running at about 30mph now (more probably not) and he glances the very corner of the building. I say glances, the wheelchair stopped completely dead and I was catapulted out at a very high speed, travelling I would say, a good 15 feet before hitting the ground.

Now what would you expect to happen to me? Bear in mind the full leg cast. Nope, I didn't go arse over tit and end up in a bloody heap. I hurtled through the air, landed feet down and somehow held my balance, managing to half-run until I could stop. I looked at Richard, who was somewhere between terror, exhaustion and cracking ribs laughing. But it was the look that the two girls sitting on the bench closest that just set it off perfectly - the most offended I've ever seen someone look at me. To the untrained eye, I had just performed an absolutely perfect, sans-sandtrap, cripple long jump. With a Jesus-has-healed-mah-legs landing.

Apologies for length, it would have been a Paralympic World Record.
(, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 15:56, 3 replies)
The Battle of Northwood Fields
History remembers many great and terrible days. These specks of sand in the hourglass of time and space are highlighted by bloodshed and pain; jubilation and victory. They are the great battles of our time.

The January of 2005 had wrapped its frosty claws around Northwood High School. The breath of students hung in the air before dissipating into the icy winds. A sheen of cold covered every exposed surface, and heavy snow had fallen upon the school fields.

One fateful day in January, the bell sounded its ringing cry across the grounds, signalling the start of lunch. Little did anyone know that today the bell was not a timekeeper; it was a signal of war.

You may have seen snowball fights, oh yes. But this… this was a snowball battle of epic proportions. Veterans of the day, now at University or in full-time jobs, will wake up screaming with cold sweat soaking their shaking bones. You don’t know, man. You don’t know because you weren’t there!

It began innocently enough. Myself and my fellows, now in our tenth year of education, were confident of waging a campaign to be reckoned with. There were plenty of chavs in the years below that we’d relish striking down with a compacted ball of arctic fury – and so it began.

Iain led the first charge, directly at a particularly loathsome specimen of happy-slapping, train-tagging, Lambrini-drinking inbred little pissweasel. At the head of a mighty arrow, he struck. Direct hit! Next came myself, Petley and Martin. Three further strikes on the thuggish cretin. Bringing up the rear were Egghead and James, and two more blows rained hell upon him.

Suffice to say, it escalated. No sooner was our merry band of six happily running amok through playing schoolchildren than we found ourselves the head of a vast army. We were joined by dozens of others throughout Year 10 as we literally took on the school.

A stroll through the battlefield on our side would tell you the extent of the war effort. At the front lines, Iain and others would lead sorties into the chav army (who numbered now in their hundreds). In the middle the long range throwers and the pinpoint snipers would be providing covering fire, and at the rear the girls were gathering snow and constructing some truly monstrous snowballs.

As for the individual conflicts within the battle, there are too many tales to tell. Perhaps the epic defence of Tom Gibb’s mother, who was brazenly insulted by a chav before the aforementioned boy was pelted with snowballs behind enemy lines. We surged forth to free our beleaguered comrade and defend the honour of Mrs Gibb.

Or there was the point where James saved my life. Fresh from a sortie, I retreated from no mans’ land to our lines. As I turned to observe the left flank all I saw was a snowball explode less than an inch from my nose as James leapt forward to punch it from the air. We looked at each other, nodded, then returned to battle.

At one point, Iain was struck from behind by the very same chav we first bombarded. As his rage built he let out a great bellow and a rather racist expletive. Fighting ceased. The armies came forth and opened a circle from whence the chav leader, a hulking great brute of a boy with the combined IQ of a sprout and a cabbage, stepped forward. Iain met him as the once-warring armies watched. A truce was called, an apology was made, and the men backed off. Then, to war once more.

I remember the end most of all. Striding through the battlefield, once white with a sheet of snow, it had been raped for ammunition until barely the sludge remained. All sides were exhausted as we stood on the field, a full ten minutes after the end of lunch. I turned to Martin, observing that no-one had eaten.
“Matt,” he said to me sagely. “In war, there is no lunch. Only the bitter taste of defeat.”
I observed the field. Our army was back to the core group plus some loyal soldiers – less than a dozen. Meanwhile, over thirty chavs stood off, throwing missiles of mud and sludge and ice. I went to Iain: “We have to end this,” I said. And that was when we took our glory.

“CHARGE!” Iain cried, and our motley band of followers ran toward the chav army, bending down and scooping up anything you could throw. I remember clearly the nervous ripple in their ranks as they realised “fucking hell, these crazy cunts are going to run us down!”

They broke and scattered. One of my fondest memories is of us charging them down, pure ecstasy on our faces as they ran for dear life. Scrambling over their stumbled comrades to escape, they fled up the stairs and into the building like rats from a sinking ship.

It was fucking beautiful.
(, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 2:17, 3 replies)
Last one. Romance.
I was a bit geeky at school. (Gee, really?) My romantic entanglements tended to be quantum in nature - i.e. they happened at a distance and were undetectable to outside observers, especially the target of my affections.

I remember one time I had a crush on someone in the year above. After many months agonizing, I approached her and asked if she wanted a screw.

Now, I had a backup plan - when (not if) she said no, I would take a screw out of my pocket, say "Pity, it's a nice one" and beat a retreat.

She said yes.

Fzzzt. My entire prefrontal cortex fuses and I resort to plan B anyway, handing her the screw and beating a hasty retreat.

So, on the minuscule chance that Amanda is a B3tan, if it's any consolation, I've felt dumb about this for 20+ years. And now I'm airing it on B3ta, confirming the fact that I am irrepressably geeky.
(, Sat 31 Jan 2009, 23:35, 3 replies)
A huge thanks to my headmistress
Back in the 1970's

My village primary school was run by a great old fashioned headmistress. She was not old fashioned in that she believed in corporal punishment, but old fashioned in that she believed in education.

None of us brats appreciated the care that she took in teaching us. We just saw her as the enemy.

In my case I saw her as a problem because she wouldn't allow me to do what I wanted. I never considered her as a human being. I saw her as a problem. So in my amoral way, I thought a problem should be removed and that removal of this problem would involve killing her. Logical really.

I decided to fix the brakes and tyres on her car to induce fatal car crash. Due to being 10 years old, having a complete lack of knowledge of car mechanics and also being spotted by a cleaning lady, the murderous attempt completely failed.

The cleaning lady informed the headmistress.

Now this is where the headmistress showed her true colours. She did not go to the police or the authorities about my psychopathic tendancies, instead she privately talked to my parents and brought in a child psychotherapist to talk to me.

As a result the reason behind my behavioural problems were spotted (We call it aspergers now), and she took it upon herself to help me through it as best as possible. She did a damned fine job of it as well.

So instead of being taken from my parents, locked up in a home and having my life totally destroyed before the age of 12, I was given a chance to make good and have sinced gained a PhD and a pretty good life.

It was years before I appreciated just what she did for me.

Here's to my headmistress, Mrs Sage. May God rest her soul
(, Sat 31 Jan 2009, 16:38, 4 replies)
Mystery poo class
I was at a very posh school between the ages of 13-18. Because of the contracts offered to teachers at said school, once a teacher had got in and passed his probationary period, it was practically impossible to uproot him. For this reason, the place was stuffed to bursting with ageing bachelors who were, quite frankly, bats.

One of the best of the bunch was a particular history master, who shall be called here Mr. K. Now whereas other teachers had amusing eccentricities, speech impediments, nervous ticks and the like, Mr. K was an absolute cracker. I mean properly round the twist – superhumanly so. He was famous for once fixing his eve on a boy who had been talking in class and bellowing at him: “My God, boy, if I hear one more word out of you, then you shall feel my cold hand in your warm intestines.” That shut him up.

Mr. K also had a dog, a Labrador, which followed him pretty much wherever he went, even during teaching time. By coincidence, it happened that the teacher who occupied the classroom opposite Mr. K’s also had a dog.

And so it was that one day Mr K’s class was interrupted by a shriek from the corridor. He flung open the door to see the teacher from the school room opposite pointing in horror at a dog poo on the carpet. An argument quickly sprung up. As far as he was concerned, the culprit was Mr. K’s Labrador and no two ways about it. Nonsense, said Mr K., his dog would never do such a thing. “And furthermore, don’t you own a dog? I bet it was that disgusting mongrel of yours.” The initial exchange led to shouting, accusations of softening of the brain and worse.

But it soon became clear that both were unwilling to give so much as an inch, and so, at Mr. K’s suggestion, a boy was eventually picked from each class to enter the corridor with a ruler in order to measure the distance between the offending poo and each of the classroom doors; the closest classroom would then take responsibility.

But it of course turned out that the poo was precisely in the centre of the corridor but slanting at an oblique angle, which sparked all sorts of animated discussion about what constituted the start point of the poo and how any measurements should be taken from it. Should both boys start measuring from the same point of the poo, or should they start from the point nearest their home classroom? This technicality assumed extreme importance – the former technique gave advantage to Mr. K, but the latter to the enemy. This very quickly re-ignited the row to full blast.

Much much later, when it became clear that nobody was going to back down, the other teacher suggested that the poo be divided equally and that each side should bear responsibility for clearing away one half. Mr. K grudgingly agreed. A boy stepped out, cut the poo in half with a ruler, and with that, it was over.

Best history lesson I ever had.
(, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 18:31, 1 reply)
Surely not the only one...
Mistaking "Home clothes day" for fancy dress. Cue me turning up to a playground teeming with kappa tracksuit clad five year olds: I was dressed as Robin Hood.

Tights and all.
(, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 18:31, 6 replies)
An old story of mine but it bears repeating.
The Swimming Gala at Upper School.
In which various pimply herberts competed for glory in the piss infested, nadger reducing over chlorinated puddle that was Sudbury Upper School's pool.

Anyway, we would have been around 15.
I was too piss poor a swimmer to be let near the events but my mate Eddie, who was a fine adept of the back stroke, was.

The pattern would go that the girl's event would take place, followed by the boys event of the same 'class'

Most of the lads competing had, in view of the fact that it was the one time in the year you'd get to see the girls out of their shapeless uniforms wisely opted to wear swimming cossies in the 'baggy shorts'. Not Ed.
He was wearing skin tight Speedo's.
So the whole YEAR could see his erection straining at his speedos.

The backstroke event started.
Then had to be restarted as all competitors bar one had collapsed(or would have done, had they not been being supported by the water of the pool) laughing at some wag shouting 'that's not fair Eddie's using a rudder!'

Even to this day, getting on for 20 years later he still is occasionally addressed as Rudder.
But only WELL out of his earshot.
(, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 16:14, 4 replies)
My first pearoast
Whilst I think of something else to write...

Our school was in quite a rich area, full of the children of lawyers and doctors, who had moved to the suburbs so they could commute into the city every day. The school grounds used to belong to an old mansion, and the only part of the original building left was an old tower, on two levels, attached to the school by a little bridge on the upper floor. The top level was Mr. Smith's maths classroom, and beneath it was a sandy-floored shelter.

The deer used to come to the round room. They would shelter under it when the weather was bad. I used to go and watch them at lunchtimes when I was going through my manic-depressive stage in third year, and wish I could be a deer, it seemed so much easier than school. Then the fourth years discovered that the walls under the round room served as an excellent hideout for all kinds of forbidden activities.

I remember the time I knelt in some deershit under the round room. It was the day I lost my innocence.

At fifteen, I was the school geek, the sad, lonely one who sat in the corner at lunchtime, nose in a book, whilst the other girls, the cool ones, chattered excitedly about boys. They all had breasts, and wore tight, short skirts, tight like clingfilm around their little hips, and they knew about kissing and what fucking and screwing meant. I was still flat as an ironing board though, known as "Holland" (after a particularly excruciating geography lesson), and had no idea what the other girls were talking about. However, when I hit sweet sixteen, I was flooded with hormones, and I discovered the previously hidden attraction of BOYS. I was besotted with one of the cool kids, one of the unattainable sixth years, with his amazing body, and clear skin, and deep voice. Unfortunately, so was everyone else, so I was left with Andy, the other geek in my year.

He was a tall, lanky, piss-streak of a boy, with greasy ginger curtains for hair, which he continually swept to the side, to get them away from his glasses. His hair was combed into a centre parting, which ha obviously been done using a ruler, so straight it was, and it was as greasy as a chippie floor. He also had the worst acne I have ever seen. A face made of pizza with extra mozzarella, which had been under a grill for too long. Some of his boils had obviously burst when he wasn't squeezing them, and a thick crust had formed over them. His nose, forehead and chin (the infamous T-zone) were like a field of boiling lava, with the constant `put! put!`s of exploding plooks. He also had a large hairy mole, which was continually being threatened with drowning in the pus, on his left cheek. We used to watch it in horrified fascination in classes, waiting for it to make a bid for freedom, but it never did.

My memories of him are full of pus and grease and the metal braces on his rodenty teeth. But it never bothered me, because he was gagging for it, like me, as horny the school orchestras' brass section (which, owing to an enthusiastic brass teacher, was exceptionally well endowed with horns that year). Like a dog with two dicks.

It was at lunchtime that he made his suggestion. It was macaroni cheese for lunch; we were in the school canteen as usual. The macaroni was being dropped onto plates by the clinical-whites clad tyre stacks that were employed solely to put pupils off their food. They all had bristles on their upper lips, evil in their hearts, and stank of sweat and cabbages. The macaroni that day was leaden in weight, and as solid as could be in consistency, like week-old porridge that has been left out in the pan, consolidated crud. It didn't taste much better, either, but we were starving. It was whilst we were eating that Andy put forward his proposal: "So, we gonna do it today, or what?" He wasn't renowned for his romantic tendencies, more for his onanism, but we were both such raging masses of hormones that we would dry hump a fence post, so I took him up on his offer. Of course, I knew this meant a trip beneath the Round Room.

We sat on the hill next to the round room, kissing wetly in the well-pounded grass, indulging in a bit of dry mutual masturbation as we waited for another couple to finish up. As we kissed, his spots were bursting, and when we eventually broke away for air, I could hear the crackling of dried pus breaking its bonds from where it had formed a little bridge between us. Eventually the other couple left, in a blushing post-coital hurry, and we headed into the pit of iniquity together.

Once beneath the high roof of the circular chamber, he unzipped his trousers, and whipped out his little willie. Well, I was shocked. These things should come with warnings - I had never seen anything so ugly before, and remember I had seen his face. It was all red and raw looking down the sides, as if it had been rubbed furiously with sandpaper for weeks (which, in retrospect, I presume it had been), but the top of it was purple and surrounded by a crust of what looked like cottage cheese. And the smell! Did you ever read those reports in the paper of a body being found after six weeks because neighbours complained of the ripe odours emanating from the room? Now combine that smell with ammonia and stale piss. I near boked then and there! However, my teenage hormones overcame the initial repulsion, and I was fascinated - did all boys have one of these? It explained so much! Andy was holding onto his little one-eyed trouser snake with such delicate tenacity, that I wondered if it would fall off and break if anyone else touched it.

He looked up at me then, and said "blow it for me". Well, what's a girl to do? I bent down, and blew gently on his mini-truncheon. "No, not like that, like this!" He told me to kneel down, and I did, putting my knee in a pile of deershit (still warm and squidgy, it seeped through my tights like soft cheese through a sieve), and he put his hands on the back of my head, and forced it towards his middle leg.

Do you remember the smell I told you about? Well it was much worse close up. Accompanied by an equally repellent taste. I couldn't help myself. I vomited. Copiously. Huge great chunks of macaroni cheese and incredibly liquid bile covered his now limp cock and spilt down into his grubby boxers and the trousers, which were crumpled around his knobbly knees. The vomit was almost everywhere on his lower body. There was a small silence before I struggled to my feet and ran away. My last image was of him standing there looking pathetic; white beneath his cheese encrusted face, flicking spew from his fingers and his marshmallowed penis.

Disappointingly, it put me off macaroni for a while.

Apologies for length, or lack of it in his case.
(, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 13:38, 6 replies)
One Christmas at School
When the Teacher had given up on teaching us anything, she handed out bits of paper with the outline of a Snowman on each of them.

'Here, you can all spend the next hour decorating these,' she said.

I got out my yellow highlighter, drew around the outline of the snowman, and wrote in bold letters, 'Christmas in Chernobyl'.

It turns out that RE teachers don't have much of a sense of humour about such things, and my friends and I were kept in at lunchtime while being lectured on the horrors of nuclear meltdown.
(, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 9:08, 140 replies)
The School
My school was great. I never knew my parents, so school was the first place I really felt like I belonged. It was one of those 'modern' type of schools with not much structure to the day. The emphasis was always on sticking together and looking out for each other, rather than academic achievement. We never did much work, in fact I can't even remember any of the teachers - it was just halcyon days of playing with my mates and going wherever we wanted in the big wide world. Until one day we all got eaten by a big whale. Bloody mammals.
(, Wed 4 Feb 2009, 13:49, 11 replies)
B3tards... The Next Generation

This is great!

I've just got off the phone from my girlfriend, who works as a support assistant in a school in Camden.

Liz dresses down for work - not the usual PVC hotpants in front of the kiddies.

Today she was busy fixing some of the kids paintings to the wall when she looks down between her legs and sees a little blonde blue eyed darling grinning up at her.

The little shit was lying flat on his back staring up, enjoying the view as Liz had her legs straddled slightly.

"What are you doing?" Liz asked.

The reply:

"Looking at your knickers, Miss..."

(, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 15:59, 7 replies)
Football Crazy
The year was 1987 and I was a 15 year old lad at the peak of my wanking career. Having become the school porno mag dealer, I had access to a plethora of Razzle, Fiesta and Knave magazines, and most importantly “virgin rights” to new editions (as I was the only one with the bottle to front up at the indian newsagents and buy them). Given our age, and the fact that we attended an all-boys school, the only real action my mates and I had experienced was Mrs Palm and Her Five Lovely Daughters. Nonetheless, all manner of explicit and nasty sex discussions were the order of the day.

Anyway, it was the Friday afternoon of the annual Prefects vs Staff football match in Beddington Park. The pupils were all lined up on one side of the field, and the staff on the other, collectively enjoying the lesson bunking more than the football.

Within ten minutes of the game, we were all bored and naturally reverted to our usual discussions, this time in reference to the female staff line up across from us. Most of the debate centred on a particularly hot economics teacher who was blessed with great legs, pretty features and awesome funbags. For over an hour we pondered and deliberated on issues such as:

- The wonder that was catching a glimpse of her black stocking tops, against her creamy pale thighs

- How good it would be to bust a nut on her mighty stilton veined meat sacks

- How it was obvious she would be up for letting you gain access to her premises from the rear by shimmying up her chocolate drainpipe

- How she most likely had an unkempt bush, but that this could be overlooked in the context of amusing mental David Bellamy impressions whilst rug munching

You can imagine how it went. Anyway, unbeknownst to us, one of the prefects had set up a video camera behind us for the purpose of filming the game. Unfortunately, as we later discovered, our discussions had been picked up by the camera microphone and provided something of an unacceptable commentary to the game.

Despite something akin to the Spanish Inquisition, we were never found out. Several years after I had left I was having a couple of beers with a male teacher from the school and the subject of “The Video” had come up. He recounted the hilarious / earth shatteringly embarrassing experience of the entire staff, sitting in the staff room, watching the video for the first time. Apparently they put up with the commentary for twenty minutes (female staff grimacing / male staff trying not to crack up) before turning it off when discussions moved on to anal fisting.

Eat your heart out Messrs Motson and Lineker.
(, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 0:24, Reply)
The school bike
was sat next to me during French. Her greasy hair was tied back tight, stretching her face and making her resemble a long-nosed, startled cat. She wore an inch of makeup, a black bra under her white shirt and smelt like she'd used half a can of impulse body spray.

She scratched at the pale white stain on her blazer sleeve, sniffed it, then still unable to tell what the stain was gave it a slight lick. "Yeah" she muttered to herself, "it's definitely spunk."
(, Mon 2 Feb 2009, 19:51, 11 replies)
Shitty Feet

The school hall was full of parents, well wishers, and quite possibly members of the international paperazzi.

Young Spanky is looking rather dashing in tiny sparkly shorts and a white t-shirt. He's one of several little tykes, waiting patiently in the wings to wow the crowd. The plan was to skip onto the stage, do a few forward rolls on the PE mats the teachers had laid out, fuck off into the other wings, turn round, and repeat three or four times. Yes, it was a fucking amazing plan.

Our public waited with bated breath.

Then young Spanky noticed the smell... and the look of complete misery on his best mate Terry's face.

Dont worry, the smell will pass, young Spanky told himself.

But the smell lingered and the look of desperation on Terry's face grew, became like stone. The boy was utterly, utterly crestfallen.

"Whats happened," squeaked young Spanky, noticing the teacher was rounding up the troupe of six year old acrobats, ready to push them out towards their adoring public and undoubted world domination in the field of forward rolls.

"I pooed meself..." Said Terry. "I can feel it in me pants."

Young Spanky checked out his mate's shorts, sure enough there was a bulge. The smell was gaining momentum, intensifying in the hot hall air.

Young Spanky had a brainwave.

"Push it down into your shoe. No one will notice."

And Terry did just that, he reached his hand down the back of his pants and wrestled with the clutch of warm nuggets he had stashed there, forcing them down his scrawny pale legs, into his white gym sock, past his anklebone, finally to rest as a squidgy brown paste in his bright white trainer. Terry flicked his foot out a bit to get comfy, to make sure the shit was evenly distributed under the sole of his foot, and we were ready to roll...

The teacher, Mis Facey, clapped and out we went. Nearly thirty of us in a line, skip, forward roll, stand, skip, another forward roll, and then off the other side of the stage to the waiting wings.

We were absolutely FUCKING MAGNIFICENT!

Then we turned and started heading out again. As we'd changed direction this time, Terry was in front.

I could tell he was struggling to hold his shit together... He was fidgeting and scratching, holding the hand that he'd used to shepherd the shit out to one side as if it was a useless claw.

But I also noticed his trainer was working loose and his sock, aided by extra stinky lubrication of sorts, was rolling down his ankle.

But there was nothing I could do. We were off again. Skip, forward roll, stand, forward roll... and into the wings. Phewww! Made it!

And then we turned for a third pass. The crowd was literally silent. You couldnt hear a fucking pin drop. They must've been stunned by the excellent aerobic display. It was the only plausible explination.

This time Terry was behind me. I did my forward roll, and glanced back to make sure Terry was in formation. I was absolutely convinced we'd all be international forward roll stars.

And that's when it happened...

Terry's squidgy shitty foot gave way as he went into his roll, the slippery, liquified mashed up shit working like superlube on his sock and trainer. As he came out of the roll his trainer and sock shot off in a shower of shit droplets...



...in a HUGE fucking arc...


...the audience...
(, Sun 1 Feb 2009, 1:26, 2 replies)
The Tale Of Kaol And The School Open Day
I didn't enjoy school very much.
It was mostly full of the stuck-up spawn of City bankers, along with a hefty dose of overseas boarders with massive egos.

Anyway... The worst thing about that place was the fact that we had school on Saturdays.
One-day-weekends are far too brief.

So, once a year there would be an open day which, for most of the group of friends I had, would mean a day off, as we "Did Not Give A Good Impression Of The School".

In my final year, however, I was asked to help out in the Biology department for the open day. I didn't appreciate having to do this, particularly, until I found out that I would be doing "Dissection Demonstrations".

This was fine with me, as I absolutely love cutting things up, and always have done.

Open day rolled around, and I was given a lab coat, a scalpel, a box of blades and a black bin bag, filled with still-born pigs.

I started by doing a standard "pin it to a board, split it open and pin the guts back" dissection, and then decided to get creative.
I took a fresh piglet and carefully set about creating the porcine version of Two-Face from Batman, by removing the skin from one side of it's body.
I got a little bored and took the eye out too.

The head of Biology came over and asked me to carry on with what I was meant to be doing, and not "lark around", so I put the eye back into the pig, and left it nice-side-up on the slab.

About half an hour later some children were walking around the department. They were about ten years old, and with their parents.
They stopped in front of Kaol's Table Of Pig Bits, and were asking questions about what I was doing.

One of them pointed to the half-skinned mess that was curled up on the slab like a freshly-washed miscarriage.

"What's that one? Can I see it?"

I nodded, and grabbed it around the chest, brandishing it towards the kid like a pork-sword.
This had the unfortunate effect of propelling the eyeball towards him, hitting him in the chest and sticking there with part of the optic nerve.

There was a lot of screaming and a fair amount of crying.
(, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 12:24, 9 replies)

This question is now closed.

Pages: Latest, 25, 24, 23, 22, 21, ... 1