The Pope has excommunicated all snake charmers
It's official - I saw the headline in the Catholic Times:

"Asp Urgers Sinned - Rome"
(ubergeekian, Mon 2 Feb 2009, 20:12, Reply)

pervy teacher
me and my mate was sent up to the 'exclusion unit'. basically, it was detention during lesson time for the entire day if you had been bad. messed around in there, then you get suspended etc.
when we walked into the room, no teacher was there which i thought ace! we can piss about even more! but we heard a noise from a walk in cuboard. when my mate had a peak she burst out laughing, when i looked the hisory teacher was shagging a 6th former on the floor. weirdly, he handed in his resignation that day and didnt come back. the 6th former was a right tarty townie aswell, slag.
i always thought he looked like a nonce, not a perv.
( sarah sarah sarah, Mon 2 Feb 2009, 19:58, 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."
( wanderlust, Mon 2 Feb 2009, 19:51, 11 replies)

Tie me up! Tie me down!
Inexplicably, in final year juniors I had an embryonic crush on Michael Hodgkinson. In a pattern that has repeated itself over the years, my affections were not reciprocated. I would do anything to attempt to ingratiate myself into his social circle, follow him round at breaktime, volunteer to be in his group when we were doing class projects and try to sit next to him at assembly.

On one such occasion, I’d managed to cleverly end up standing behind him in the queue to go into the hall and, sure enough, I found myself spending the next 30 minutes (a veritable lifetime in the mind of a 10 year old when in the presence of a boy she likes) sat next to him, crossed legged on the floor of the gym. Being one of the bad boys of the class, he wasn’t really paying attention to the homily being spouted by the teacher, and was entertaining himself, as boys do, playing with his sock. He’d managed to unwind a bit of wool from it and was fabricating a kind of cat’s cradle to distract himself. He turned to me, probably out of sheer boredom, and offered me one end of the wool. Like a kitten with, well, a bit of wool, I pounced. We spent a happy 10 or so minutes fighting over this piece of sock and had I but known it, my fledgling hormones were beating a tattoo; “you’re in there, you’re in there, he likes you…”

It was never going to end well (please, what did you expect…). Somehow, in our rough and tumble, I’d managed to get the wool wrapped round his wrists, tying them together in a sort of “my first bondage kit” manner. Alerted to the commotion occurring at the back, the teacher stopped, zeroed in on us and seeing that the two possible culprits were a) the boy who may as well have had a blue plaque on his chair at detention, so much time did he spend there or b) proto-geek with National Health glasses and permanent neck ache from being such a kiss arse, he naturally, and wrongly, assumed that the trouble maker was solely Michael.
Ordering him to stand up in front of the rest of the school, he was about to launch into a tirade about paying attention when he noticed that Michael looked uncomfortable and had his arms folded tightly across his chest. “Put your hands by your sides” he bellowed, a task that had been rendered impossible by the fact that Michael’s wrists were still tied firmly together by a piece of wool.

After a few moments of stand off, Michael finally held out his wrists in a gesture of supplication, explaining wordlessly the reason for his defiance.

Michael was sent to the Head’s carpet (not a euphemism) and never spoke to me again. My role in the whole incident was never discovered, despite him gesturing wildly at me as he was lead from the hall, protesting, “But Sir, she…It was her… She…”

I now try not to tie boys up in public, unless they ask really nicely.
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Mon 2 Feb 2009, 19:31, 1 reply)

I have a myriad of hilarious school tales I could tell.....
.....but one of my favourite ever actually belongs to my ex boyfriend - the father of my child.

Now *Andy's a nice guy, but personal hygiene was never his strong point. Showers were a rare indulgence, he kept the same toothbrush for 14 months and I'm fairly sure it was his feet that were used on that hideous 'criminail' advert. He also considered his bouts of flatulence (which arrived approximately every 30 seconds) to be epic performances, so what he did in the sixth form common room, should have been no surprise to anyone.....

Let's go back a decade and set the scene: a painfully strict, Catholic, all boys school, run by a sprinkling of Jesuit monks and fearsome oirish teachers. Andy would have been 17 - soon to be 18, and was mucking about in the common room with a couple of mates, playing pool or some such rubbish. Anyway - he wanders off into the kitchen to make a cuppa, just as the bell goes off signalling the end of lunchtime and the start of the last period. Our man fully intends to skive this lesson and so he stays hiding in the kitchen with the view to dashing out of school after everyone has left. "Fair enough", you might think; "we've all done it!" Perhaps.

You see, what Andy DIDN'T count on was a teacher locking the door after all of the lads had seemingly vacated the room.

"Oh buggery fuck", thinks Andy and ponders on what to do next.

He shoots a few solitary games of pool when he gets that oh-so-familiar bubbly feeling in the pit of his belly.

The carsey's on the other side of the locked door. Shite.

"I'll hold it in", Andy decides. Trying hard to ignore it, he sits down on the sofa and switches on the telly - no doubt to watch a repeat of some cunty daytime DIY show.

Nope. It's not going away. His violent bowl twisting is accompanied by some nasty griping pains. Ouch.

Andy stands up and tries his hand at a lone game of darts. Round the clock, perhaps? (Evil rules, obviously). But gravity does not benefit him and by now things are desperate. His guts have gone completely spastic and his ring-piece is straining against the pressure of the doubtless explosive turd threatening to cause carnage in his boxers. He needs to back out a cack and he's running out of time.

Panicking, he looks around the room and spots the waste-paper bin in the corner of the room, thoughtfully lined with a plastic Tesco bag (every little helps, right?!) - I assume you know what's coming next?!?!?!

Yep. it's the only thing for it. Andy whips off his keks faster than he used to cum and shats in the bin. Big time.

The relief felt by our protagonist (or antagonist, if you're a member of the faculty) is immeasurable, but it is quickly followed by worry as Andy realises that; a)he has nothing to wipe his shit-box with and b)what the fuck is he going to do with the shit?!

He turns round bare-arsed to study his creation and is mildly surprised at not finding the bin swimming with turgid brown anus-water. While it is not quite a pebble dash effect, neither is it a log - more of a gooey, bitty, sticky shit with very slight form. And it's massive. And rotten. And it smells worse than a morgue on fire.

Obviously, owing to the type of shite resting at the bottom of the bin, it is clear that Andy MUST wipe his batty, otherwise the smell will linger around him like a clingy child. But there's a dilemma: Andy has no tissues. So what does our hero do? Well let's put it this way, his mum never washed that particular pair of boxers again. Nor either of his Donnay socks.....

After dropping his soiled draws in the bin, he pulls up his school trousers and wonders what to do about dilemma number 2: disposing of the plop.

He can't throw it out the window - for he doesn't have the key to open it with. He point blank REFUSES to tie up the pony bag and hide it in his rucksack to throw away later - even Andy has some standards and plus, the stench is so horrific that everyone will clock. So what does he do?!

At this point the bell rings. It's 3:30pm and schools finished. His mates'll be back any minute! Panic-stricken, Andy looks around the room wildly for somewhere to stash his shameful mishap and decides upon shoving it down the back of the sofa cushions. Genius!

Andy then legs it back into the kitchen to hide and moments later, the door to the common room is unlocked and in bounds dozens of his adolescent peers, none the wiser. They laugh about his 'good' fortune at being accidentally locked in the common room. Andy leaves school for the day (weekend, actually) and skips off to get the bus, unchallenged by any teachers as to his whereabouts. Nobody guesses he is going commando. Phew.

So fast-forward two or three weeks. Everybody at school has been avoiding the common room like the plague. It's got this nasty smell in there you see - really rancid, like a dead animal or something. No-one's found out what it is yet. Until one wet, Thursday morning, the headmaster's furious roar booms out across the assembly hall.....

.....Apparently, the poor cleaner had made the gruesome discovery the previous night and was so traumatised that she quit on the spot! You see, what Andy had forgotten in his haste, was that the sofa in the common room backed on to the radiator. No wonder the smell had stayed put for so long.....

Of course the school head was incensed in the way that only teachers can be and used words such as "defecated" and "culprit" - even "expulsion!", (as they do). When the head asked the rest of the school if any body wanted to own up to anything, there was deafening silence (despite the fact that most of the pupils were probably biting there fists trying not to laugh).

So Andy fearfully kept stum. And as a result, got the ENTIRE sixth form banned from using their own common room for the rest of the school year.

It was only November.

Oh.




Length? Which length do you want? Andy's 6ft5, his shat was about a foot, his punishment half a year and his cock, well let's not embarrass the poor guy even more, eh?!

*Name not changed, because he's sooooo proud!!!
(Clonk, Mon 2 Feb 2009, 18:52, 5 replies)

It was the last lesson
and I was begging the teacher to let me go for a pee. For some reason she didn't want to let me go but I was bursting and kept on pestering her, I was 8. Eventually she relented and I ran to the loo ripped my zip off and let loose just in time.

When I finished I realised that I had literally ripped my zip off, my postbox was wide open and there was no way I was going to be able to hide it. My pre-pubescent mind conjured up images of the girls pointing at my crotch and laughing (suprisingly this came true much, much later) and the boys saying that I was a poof and bullying me till I qualified for a bus pass. I felt the panic rising, I'd lose any cool and friends I had. I couldn't go back to class.


Then I got my brainwave. There was only 10 minutes of school left, I could leave now, hide somewhere for 10 minutes and then sneak home and no one would be the wiser about my gaping trousers.

I rushed down the corridors, creeping ninja-like past the doors until I was out of the school and hiding behind the bushes at the far end of the playing fields. There I waited for exactly 10 minutes and sauntered home, pleased with my near miss.

I sneaked into the through the back yard and strolled home as nonchalantly as I could. This was the scene I walked in on:
My mum in tears being comforted by a WPC
My dad handing photos of me to another officer
A woman from social services talking my siblings.
A police car and a dog van parked outside the window.

It seems that my absence was noticed. When I didn't come back from the toilet, my classmates were sent to fetch me. When they couldn't the school went on full red alert. The only thing they could think of was that some pedophile had sneaked in and whisked me away and was probably rogering me sensless already.

Hence the police response and my parents being told that "there's a good chance he's alive". I tell you after the punishment I got I would have actually preffered being rogered by a nonce.
At school they didn't get the full story of my escape and the kids assumed that I ran out just because I was bored, which actually enhance my cred. So my plan did actually kind of work.

Edit: just realised, did anyone check Maddie's zips?
(Bo Nidle Coming back in from the cold., Mon 2 Feb 2009, 18:31, 2 replies)

We were sat in my GCSE IT class
And our teacher has just finished chatting to a few people at the front of the class about something or other. When he comes over to our table and says to a friend sat next to me 'Your mum was good last night', my friend obviously shocked by this statement, says, rather agressively,'WHAT?!' and seeing as this friend was quite a large 16 year old the teacher then says hurriedly 'At parents evening, she was good at parents evening'
(yfky should be trying to get a job, Mon 2 Feb 2009, 18:22, Reply)

Alcohol crackdown
As anyone who's been to boarding school will know, alcohol is a serious problem/source of fun (delete as appropriate). And so it isn't unusual for school management to launch crackdowns on its consumption, sending out more vociferous messages & increasing punishments for a time. Such action was taken at my school in the early 90s.

However, we were all surprised to find it being taken quite so seriously when we came downstairs one morning to find a letter from the Headmaster pinned to the house noticeboard. It read something like:


"For the attention of all pupils.

"It has come to my attention that, despite the recent warnings about drinking alcohol whilst at school, around 80 pupils openly flaunted the no-drinking rules in front of several of my colleagues on Sunday morning. The brazen way in which they drank communion wine in the school chapel sets a bad example to all.

"In the spirit of Christianity, however, I would like to declare an amnesty. All pupils who are guilty of this offence should report to their housemaster by 5.00pm on Friday, and their punishment shall be reduced to a double detention. Those who fail to declare their guilt and are subsequently identified will be suspended as per the new rules.

"To prevent further such incidents occurring, the school chaplain has agreed that Ribena will be served at future services."


Cue a certain amount of disbelief amongst all pupils. Disbelief that was subsequently explained when it emerged that one year 9 boy had somehow managed to get hold of some headed letter paper, forged the Headmaster's signature, and then (this is my favourite bit) during one night managed to smuggle himself into all 16 boarding houses to pin this letter up before anyone awoke.

Unsurprisingly he was himself suspended, but his antics won him more kudos amongst his peers than I think the Head would have liked...
(Armour Dillow, Mon 2 Feb 2009, 17:56, Reply)

website shenanigans
Eagle-eyed readers will know that I posted a shorter version of this on /board last week, if I'd have known what this weeks QOTW was, I'd have sat on it...c'est la vie.

When I was a young lad, I was quite the whizz with computers - and keen too, so keen in fact, that our Business Studies/IT teacher used to lock me in the computer room during her dinner break - and me being completely trustworthy, she used to leave 'Admin2' logged in while she went.
One day, I went behind her desk and gave myself administrator rights, and spent the dinner hour discretely distributing them to my mates, right under her nose - while she played Solitaire.
It was great fun, I managed to bring a chat program in, discovered Winpopup and everybody elses document folders!

We really took the biscuit when a friend of mine found a floppy disk in an unlocked drawer, and brought it round to my house after school - we had a look at it, and it was the newly launched school websites FTP details!
We downloaded everything from their page, and made a cloned version
What we didnt know is that the Headmasters bosses were all looking at the page around the time we put it on - cue him storming into my GCSE English exam with steaming at the ears with a bright red face and glaring at me, realising there was nothing he could do, and stormed out in a huff.

Apparantly, he didn't like the photo we used of him.
A couple of days later, I got a call from him, asking to design their official page for them.

Length: About 4 years, until I got 2 police on my doorstep telling me to take it down, or else the new headmistress will take me to court over it.
(Davethefan began lurking again on or around, Mon 2 Feb 2009, 16:59, 4 replies)

Once, in math...
There were two people who sat at the back of the class, let us call them A and B for anonymity's sake. Now A had the tendancy to be somewhat... shall we say brash at times. He was trying to tell B about how tough he was, and this exchange occurred:
A: I'm really hard.
B: Yeah, you get hard for maths.
That was all well and good, but at this point A temporarily lost control of the volume of his voice in his desire to retort, and wound up shouting at the top of his voice to all the class:
"No, B, I get hard for you! I want to cum on your face!"

Our teacher, to her immense credit, only raised her eyebrows at him.
(flipflap, Mon 2 Feb 2009, 16:45, 2 replies)

Vandalism of school property
I remember myself and a few cohorts pulling and yanking at a science lab bench tap in my senior school. It happened to be just before half term.

The pipe leaked over the following week, and brought the entire ceiling of the class room below down.

Nobody ever owned up.

On a related note, i also decided to fill the gas pipes with water. (Water pressure being higher than the gas) I removed the rubber tube from a bunsen (spelling?) burner, and proceeded to connect it to both the gas tap and the water tap in the science lab, which also happend to be my form room. Turned on both taps for a little while, let the water do it's thing, then turned off the taps and removed the tube.

The look on pupils faves and the teachers must have bee a treat, as they would have been treated to a nice little water fall rather than a gas flame....

Oh how we laughed.
(iwantmybed Is counting down the hours till home time on, Mon 2 Feb 2009, 16:42, Reply)

Evil Hags called Dinner Ladies!
Going all the way back to the early seventies: at my infant school we had a real dragon of a dinner lady. Her name shall remain stricken from the record to prevent her restless spirit haunting me.
Anyway, I have always been averse to one particular vegetable as they quite literally make me physically sick: yes sprouts I'm talking about you. Satan's bumboils they are!
When I started at school, my mumsy sent a note written in her finest handwriting to our headmistress asking that they not feed me on these fetid mini cabbages. She duly signed this and gave it back to me to keep, and present to the dinner staff when we had sprouts.
So one day, I'm at the serving hatch, and lo and behold sprouts are the day's veg. Myself being a well brought up nipper explains that I have a note excusing me from eating them: suddenly all hell breaks loose!
"YOU WILL PUT SPROUTS ON HIS PLATE, AND I WILL STAND OVER HIM AND MAKE SURE HE EATS THEM!": or words to that effect anyway.
Yes, the evil hag had seen what had been going on, and stuck her big bulldog face in where it wasn't needed.
No amount of pleading or displaying of the note worked.
I was forced to eat sprouts: less than a minute after the first one hit my little tum, rich, sprouty vomit sprayed from my mouth all over the table, and all over the Dinner Lady from Hell.
My projectile eructation then induced a wave of puke from virtually everybody else at my table.
Needless to say, the hag had to clean it all up, along with eight puke encrusted kids.
She also had to explain to the head why she had chosen to ignore my pleas about my note: my mother told me years later that she had said that she thought I had written it myself.
I was four!
Fuckin' hate them little green twats!
(The Yongy Bongy Bo brought to you in glorious monochrome, Mon 2 Feb 2009, 16:38, 2 replies)

Mr. S
I had a science teacher called Mr. S (whose name sounds a bit like Hutch's partner) who was a bit of a hoot. He always wore dark glasses, and spoke in a thick Belfast accent. As we were on the Continent, this was a bit of a novelty so we initially found the accent amusing.

Anyway, he was the one who taught us sex-education aged 12. I suspect he was Catholic enough to feel uncomfortable about this. When we got to the topic of ejaculation, he was nervously saying things like "you know when you play with your penis" to a bunch of wank-virgins as if it was the most casual thing for one of your teachers to say, and when the inevitable laughter happened, he seemed to be a bit put off. He also tried to explain the concept of 'feminine wetness' but gave up when one of the girls repeatedly said "but mine doesn't do that" despite his initial protestations of "have you tried moving your legs around?". To top it off, he had this piece of sage advice for us - "Don't jump into bed with anyone just yet".

He also had a reputation for making his science-experiments go wrong. One of them failed spectacularly. He was attempting to show us the distillation process for crude-oil. After some of the components had dribbled out of the tube in an orderly fashion, by the time the temperature got to 80°c, the oil spluttered with a life of it's own and squirted out the end of the tube with great force. Fortunately, nobody was burned, but the hot oil went all over the clothes of the 'trendy' kid, so from his point of view, it must have been as bad as being burned. In fact, one day when our topic was energy, he promised us we'd spend the next lab-session burning stuff to see which substances produced the most energy. I was looking forward to a cocktail of teenaged combustion-sillyness and puberty-fuelled laughter, so was understandably disappointed when the school closed down that day due to broken central-heating.

He also taught us Maths for a bit. This time, it would be his calculations that went wrong, and if a calculator gave an unexpected result, his eyes would pop out like a cartoon character's eyes.

While not one of my most inspiring teachers, he did teach me more stuff that's useful in my career than any of my other teachers (or for that matter, university lecturers), and he's a good bloke and the sort of person I'd want to meet up with for a pint or two.
( mistaspakkaman and the inedible shifting caterpillars, Mon 2 Feb 2009, 16:37, Reply)

Infant school was where it started...
I was hung up a tree at the bottom of the school playing fields one lunch time. Not by a noose, but by my rather fetching duffle coat. (It was 1983)

Nobody noticed I was missing for a good few hours, when eventually a teacher found me looking rather for lawn and down beat, stuck like a turkey awaiting slaughter.

I still have nightmares to this day....and I never will forget those responsible....you know who you are!!! I'll get you back one day!!
(iwantmybed Is counting down the hours till home time on, Mon 2 Feb 2009, 16:33, 3 replies)

2nd year PE.....
We were playing rugby.

A large, speccy, nerdy type received a pass. He spotted a gap amid the throng of juvenile bodies, and hit the accelerator. This was going to be his big moment - a try of all things! He was no longer going to be a nerd, but a sporting legend!

Strangely his opponents appeared somewhat reticent about tackling him, but he ploughed on regardless to the try line.

What he had failed to realise was that his cock had flopped out of his shorts as he bombed towards the aghast defensive line, scaring the bejesus out of all before him. No wonder no one attempted to 'tackle' him.
(Reverend Fister "a disciplined fuckwit", Mon 2 Feb 2009, 16:15, 2 replies)

Ice Pops. Scourge of the IT teacher.
Ever since I've been a kid, I've always eaten quickly. It must have come from the times when I was nobbut knee-high to a grasshopper and there wasn't a lot to go round - when you ate, you ate as quick and as much as you could because you didn't know when the next lot would be coming.

Anyway, as I got older this trait continued, up to the point where our story begins. It was a hot summer's day in Sheffield, the kind of day where you're permanently damp and sticky because of the humidity. In this case when you're a poor teenager there is only one solution - the 10p ice pop.

The cheap mixture of chemical colours and flavourings in frozen water was a brief respite to the sweltering heat, and with that day being a particular bad un, I decided to have what medieval people would have called a surfeit of ice pops from the corner shop at dinner time...

After the frozen feast, the walk back to school seemed to unleash some kind of unholy chemical reaction in my gut, resulting in a godawful bout of nausea.

I had IT straight after dinner with the very angry and evil Mr Howard, a man who clearly didn't like me (I think he felt threatened by my genuine ability and confidence with computers - he came from a time when computers were bigger than Lancashire and were operated with valves) and clearly wouldn't pay heed to my claims of illness.

You can see what's coming, right?

After managing for about 15 mins in the super-heated IT room, I made a bid for the toilets. Being a nice boy, I asked permission first...

Me (with hand up, like a good 'un): "Sir, I don't feel well, can I go to the toilet?"
Mr Howard: 'No Mr Apprentice, you'll have to sit through it..."
Me (out of seat and edging to the door): "But Sir, I feel really sick, honest, can I go?"
Mr Howard (volume louder than The Who's Live At Leeds album): "NO, NOW SIT DOWN, DO AS YOU'RE TOLD OR I'LL HAVE YOU IN DETENTION FOR YOUR CHEEK".

That was me told. Or so I thought.

About five minutes later, I started those horrible vomit burps. Something was coming and it wasn't going to be pretty.

I got up out of my chair and legged it to the front desk.

Me: "Sir, I REALLY need to go, I'm going to be sick..."

It was at this point that Mr Howard decided to make a show of things and drew everyone's attention to what he felt was a pitiful example of a pupil when all of a sudden, a torrent of vom rose out of my gut. I put my hand over my mouth to stop it going on to Mr Howard's desk, however I'd not excuted the move properly.

No, the fingers on my hands were opened up, creating some kind of spraying capability for the vomit to disperse in all directions - imagine a garden sprinkler but with spew coming out of it and you've got the picture.

I managed to cover a fair bit of the IT room, two kids, Mr Howard's desk and PC, and more importantly, Mr Howard himself with a fine mist of spew. To top it off, my vomit was a lovely green hue, a blend of the colourings I'd ingested in my ice pop gorge-fest earlier.

I got the rest of the day off, and anytime I needed to go to the toilet in Mr Howard's lesson again, I was free to do so without even a question.

Great stuff.

On a less funny note however, it turned out that my sickness bout was part of the onset of some terrible form of stress-related gastro-enteritis, which lasted right through my exams and got me extra time due to my constant need to leg it to the toilet.

Still, got an A in IT. Bonus.
(scentless_apprentice takes two bottles into the shower!, Mon 2 Feb 2009, 16:01, Reply)

It never happened like this to Frank Spencer
By the age of 16 me and my friends were interested in the same type of things that most boys of that age were- namely rampant self-abuse while thinking of the women that would never sleep with us and growing inadvisable attempts at facial hair in the hope that we would look old enough to be served alcohol.

So it was that on final week before the Easter break none of us shaved in anticipation of hitting the town after the last day of school. We trailed around the local pubs that were known to turn a blind-eye to underagers, getting rather squiffy, all the while stroking our under-developed bum fluff goatees in order to look more sophisticated to the ladies that would never sleep with us.

We were having fantastic fun until we entered one hostelry to be faced with the Maths department from our school. Unbeknownst to us we had arrived at the pub that they regularly used for their end of term piss ups. There was something of a stand-off while we eyed them nervously, discussing whether we should head to another pub and they sniggered into their pints at our nascent facial hair.

"Sod it" we decided- we were full of Dutch courage at this point and any fear we had towards our teachers had long since departed. A good choice as it turned out. After some ribbing to begin they were incredibly good value- even Mr McLean, the scary bear-like head of department.

The real focus of attention of the evening though was the young and incredibly attractive Miss Johnstone. A heaving bosom and penchant for low cut, floaty silk blouses made her a favourite of all the boys. The side of school bore the spray-painted legend 'Miss Johnstone has nips you could dial a telephone with' in her honour. She was a fearsome beast too- a quick temper and was nicknamed 'G.I. Jo' because of her Territorial Army membership.

We all wanted to have a go at chatting her up*- success would ensure that we were spoken of in awe at our school for generations to come. Alas, she spent the night being chatted up by some guy closer to her own age. I spied my chance when he had to go and break the seal. I knew he wouldn't be gone for long, this was my one chance and I had to make it good. I ambled across the room, raking my mind for a great opening line. I gave her a knowing look as I sidled up, alcohol and hormones racing through my veins. About to seal my immortality by shedding my virginity to the hottest teacher in the school, I unleashed my smoothest line:

"Sho who ish that shlimey cunt that yer chatting too?"

"My fiance", came the icy cold reply.

I returned to school after the holidays to two weeks worth of detention.


*Laughable, I know...
(I Was a Teenage Spaceship, Mon 2 Feb 2009, 15:25, 3 replies)

Not at my school but I heard this at school
The school I went to was pretty boring with regards to school stories. This fact was constantly bleated out by one of the girls I went to school with.

Anyway, she used to go to a boarding-school in Ireland. Often, she and her friends would try and sneak out and buy cigarettes at the local shops. The shops and the school had an arrangement where if the shopkeeper spotted someone attempting to buy/steal cigarettes, they'd notify the school by telephone.

So anyway, the pupils had found a way round this - they managed to climb up a telephone pole and somehow tamper with the telecommunications wires and insert a phone of their own. By some miracle, they were able to intercept phonecalls to the school and when the shop called, they'd do their best secretary-impersonation and get away scot free.

Nowadays, one of my friends is a telecomms engineer, and I've never asked him how feasible it is for a bunch of naughty schoolgirls to have enough knowledge of telecommunications to intercept a phonecall. Bear in mind that this was the mid 80's.
( mistaspakkaman and the inedible shifting caterpillars, Mon 2 Feb 2009, 15:22, 1 reply)

The phantom shitter
It was me all along. Many a school toilet up and down the country has been defiled by the products of my bowels.

Even though I left school 14years ago I still sneak in to whatever school happens to be nearby and deposit a little teddy bears arm for all to see.

Thanks to the anonymity of the internet, and the fact that noone here knows my true identity*, my secret will remain safe for all time and my legend grows by the day.

*apart from Agnostic Antichrist and HappyLittleTulip but they won't tell!
( SpikeyPickle wishes he was mabazaritchie, Mon 2 Feb 2009, 15:11, 4 replies)

Static
You know how when you get out of the car on a dry day, and you sometimes get a hock when you touch the metalwork of the door? Well, that happens to me a lot. I seem to generate and hold static electricity rather well. I am, in effect, a large Van de Graaf generator. In my student years, I discovered that I would inadvertently blow up electronic circuits, which I've had to be careful of since.

Anyway, at secondary school in the '80s, I used to wear a parka during winter months. You know the type, green with an orange lining and furry hood. If I ran down the stairs, rubbing my sleeve on the plastic banisters, I could generate some significant charge. The discharge initially happened accidentally (no taking that phrase out of context, now!) when I touched something metallic, but I soon learned that I could touch my finger to some point of someone else's anatomy, and give them a shock.

Numerous girls at my school had their noses sparked by me over that period.

Did I mention I was quite late in losing my virginity....?
( K2k6 has a proper job these days, Mon 2 Feb 2009, 14:41, 3 replies)

True
On my very first day at school, aged around 5, I was told that if I went to the toilets I would have my flushed down them by older boys. And from that day forward, until the age of 16, I never used a school toilet.

Fact.

Even now, aged 37, I can go an entire day without having a piss.
(frankspencer, Mon 2 Feb 2009, 14:23, 4 replies)

Turkey
A spirited, eccentric and hyperactive Geography bore, known to all as Turkey, was renown for his wild-eyed, stick waving antics, usually accompanied by threats of "beats to the shoulders".

Frequently he'd prance about in front of a bewildered class, long wooden stick clasped in his boney mitt, spewing threatening gibberish towards the unruly masses.

It all came to a head the day he allowed his excitement to overcome him and he smashed the strip light above his head, showering himself in glass and a cloud of fluorescent dust.

I fondly remember watching with a vacant boredom as he berated a fellow student, while carving the air with his beloved stick, looking ever more like a mong playing pirates.

The pupil, a young black fellow who'd been bought up on the mean streets of Battersea, responded to this berating with his customary kiss of his teeth and a nonchalant "cha", or words to that effect.

The response from the front of the class guaranteed that no amount of stick waving would rescue the lesson, as an indignant Turkey retorted with a loud and pointed "None of your ethnic ways in my class, boy."

Half the room descended into an outraged funk, vowing to "do him" for his unashamed racism. The other half collapsed in uncontrollable laughter, and spent the remainder of the lesson trying to hide their sniggers behind fake coughs.
( Moey, Mon 2 Feb 2009, 14:06, Reply)

Nudist beach
In Year 11, second last year of high school, most of the serious drop-kicks had left school, and those of us left were actually trying to work. To help with that, the school sent us off on a 'study camp' for a few days, for us to do various bonding things and to learn some studying techniques.

Now the traditional campground we were sent to for this, happened to be just up the hill from a beach. Around the point from that beach, was another which was famous for being a nudist beach, dating back to the time when such places were illegal here. We, of course, made a huge fuss about getting so close to it, until a couple of the male teachers promised us we'd get a look at it, if we behaved!

We got our look. On a 7am jog before breakfast along a totally deserted beach. Bastards.

Anyway, that afternoon, we had one of our little bonding exercises on the beach with the art teacher. She was a little, somewhat ditzy, and totally innocent woman. She was so nice, and totally disconnected from reality, that few people ever played up in her classes, it was too much like kicking a puppy. Her idea was for us to form into groups and make sand sculptures on the beach.
So we looked around us, for inspiration. Well, *one* group made an octopus...
...which was surrounded by several naked sand bodies!

The eight-foot tall woman, with the strategically placed tunnel was enthusiastically humped by one of the builders, while the rest of us shouted about how she wouldnt feel his tiny dick even if she was a midget. Another more realistically proportioned sand woman was somewhat vaguely shaped, execpt for the perfectly formed tits which had taken half an hour of us taking turns at shaping them and trying to get the sand nipples to stay on.

The poor art teacher got more and more upset as she went along the line, at the progression of naked bdies, until she reached the final sand sculpture. The one made by the good girls, the quiet ones who never misbehaved, and always got straight A's.
The neatly shaped naked man was bad enough. I think it was the small white feather sprouting from the end of his erect cock that made her burst into tears though.
(ShowPony, Mon 2 Feb 2009, 13:48, Reply)

Breakdowns...
I went to a fairly hardline catholic school (hell...brimstone...etc), and when I was 14 or so, we were all delighted to hear of a scandal. The head of RE had been on holiday in Australia with her husband, and he'd got into a spot of bother with the law.
She'd eventually come home alone, and we were none the wiser as to why he was being held over, until the local paper got wind of it. This particular paper was a vile, sensationalist shitrag, but nonetheless has a fairly good audience in the area.
So imagine our surprise when we pick up copy of the paper on Wednesday morning to see said teacher's wedding photo on the cover.
Long story short, scumbag husband had picked up a 14 year old rent boy in Sydney, got his rocks off, and was subsequently being blackmailed by rentboy's pimp (or whatever they have). Husband gets 7 years, teacher gets embarassed.

This woman was a truly horrible example of humanity. She'd reduced many a 12 year old to tears with accusations of "being a slut," so when we saw this opportunity, we had to run with it.
Cue my mate Dan running to the shop to buy 30 copies of the Herald, distributing evenly, and lying in wait for our RE lesson.

Within 5 seconds of her walking in and seeing us all reading, she fell to the floor, in the foetal position, and started sobbing.

Didn't see her again for about 5 months, and rumour has it she'd been sectioned for most of it.

And I'm the one going to hell, eh?
(kccat does NOT look like Joe 90, Mon 2 Feb 2009, 13:28, 1 reply)

The tale of the most developed lad and the crunched up polo mints
Every year had them.. the lad that was bigger, and stronger, and had developed about 10 years earlier than should have done. In our year we had several, though this story is about Jamie Wall. He was like a 20 year old, that had to go back to school as part of his 'community service'.

This story also involves Bulraj Bhandal. A fat porky asian kid, who always seemed to be the one laughing at other peoples misfortune..

We were playing hockey on one of the hard playing surfaces.. cue much pushing and shoving and tripping people up to see who could get the best graze. Until that is, when the ball happened to stop at Jamie Wall's feet.

He lined the ball up, just as you would teeing off on a golf course. Instantly, people dived out of the way, and clutched at their shins in fear.

One person oblivious to this was Bulraj Bhandal, who for some reason thought it was wise to stand behind Jamie, rather than face the cannonball strike from his overdeveloped muscular frame.

What Bulraj didn't account for, was the powerful backswing required to make such a shot. Jamie fiercly drew his hockey stick back.. connecting with the grinning face of Bulraj !

There was a moments silence.. Everybody stopped and looked at Bulraj, as 1 by 1, all of his front teeth rained down on the floor like crunched up polo mints.

Cue Bulraj squealing like a little girl, as he was taken to the nearest dentist.

Leaving the class, stood there, ultimately pissing ourselves so much we had to stop play.
(TheRiddler Hmmmmm... I concur., Mon 2 Feb 2009, 13:14, 5 replies)

Last Day of Sixth Form
And are we going to do any work? Are we fuck!

We hired a bouncy castle and spent all afternoon pissing around on that. The teachers just let it go...

Although the pièce de résistance – driving a bubble car into the Sixth Form Centre common room (in a normal way through the doors, not smashing any walls down or anything) – was rather ruined by the head of the Sixth Form coming out and saying "I don't think that's very funny." Bastard. Although I suppose he had a point...

Oh and my Year 7 History teacher was (and still is as far as I'm aware) the harmonica player for 'Bad Manners'. Top bloke.
(beanojam isn't really Ricardo Flange, Mon 2 Feb 2009, 13:03, 1 reply)

Playing with Fire...Literally
The group I used to hang about with at school had a penchent for flamable things which involved us bringing in petrol in those garden squirty things, thinking we could have a flame thrower fight. What fun we thought. Until the first time we tried it, my mate Graeme (Hi mate if your reading this) forgot to change the nozzle and so had it on mist. So it was squirted and a lit match put underneath. A huge ball of flame suddently engulfed the plastic bottle, full of petrol. Whoops we thought.. perhaps slightly stronger than that and with a flurry it was chucked under the nearest terrapin. ( portacabins they are called these days) This was of course a fucking stupid thing to do because A: They are made of wood and B: underneath is lots and lots of dry grass, ripe to be catching fire. Arse thinks us and dives under it to try and put it out with the beating of hands etc. Fortunately we were able to do so. Thinking back now, WHY did not only we try to cause a rather large explosion by thinking that a plastic bottle full of petrol would be a fun toy but more importantly, why did we think that crawling under a wooden building, inches away from a potential deathtrap was a good idea... fun times!
(scowners shagged his mum on, Mon 2 Feb 2009, 12:56, Reply)

The Tale Of Kaol And The Meat-Boxing
Back in the days of GCSE Biology I had a bit of a strange teacher.
He'd often just turn up to a lesson, give us some lump of animal and say "Get on with it".
He was also bald, and had large, bulging eyes, so we called him Sméagol. Children can be so cruel...

Anyway, back to the story.
One afternoon we turned up to class to find Sméagol standing on his head in the corner of the room, eating an orange.
After a brief explanation that "You can swallow upside-down, because it's peristalsis, not gravity that moves the food", he got himself back upright and pointed to a black bin-bag on the desk.
"There're cow hearts in there. Enough for one each. Get on with it, the dissection equipment is at the back of the lab."

With that he vanished from the room, and we knew he'd be gone for the rest of the lesson.

~~~~*wavy forward-in-time lines*~~~~

Fifteen teenagers in lab coats are standing in a rough circle, laughing and cheering.
Two fairly tall young men, also in lab coats are swinging wildly at each other.
Their lab coats are blood-stained, and they seem to be wearing boxing gloves made from shiny dark red leather.

My lab partner Mike and I had got bored of the simple dissection.
With a bit of slicing, and a couple of failed attempts, I'd created two pairs of "Meat Boxing Gloves".
The major artery holes in a cow-heart are a pretty good fit for human fingers, it turns out...
( Cawl, Mon 2 Feb 2009, 12:53, 4 replies)

Shorts and Piss Trough Outrage

In my days a stripling, while toiling away within the walls of the local C of E, I reckon I served under the banner pretty faithfully, my conduct and bearing being (on the whole) rather becoming of the better self. There was one notable occasion when I let the code slip however, and it remains particularly green in the memory.

It began one afternoon when I took a break from the customary playtime spazaround to take on water at the fountain in the boys’ toilets-cum-changing rooms, and found myself alone in there except for a forgotten pair of sports shorts hanging on a peg. Not a set-up that readily speaks of mischief I grant you, but it was enough to wake the sleeping fiend in me.

Unhooking these shorts, setting them afloat in the flowing urinal and pissing all over them for good measure was with me the work of a moment, and for a few seconds I was lost in a heady fog of my own naughtiness, face-a-glow and eyes-a-sparkle with impish delight. But these intoxicating mists soon cleared and I was left with a nasty feeling that what I’d done was perhaps a bit too French, and that unless prompt steps were taken through the proper channels, I’d be in the soup.

The only sensible thing I could think of was to find a teacher and start lying my head off, so this is exactly what I did, swiftly making a report of an ‘innocent discovery’ of the shorts-and-piss-trough outrage, and colouring the performance with a nice touch of moral indignation and offended sensibility.

The Headmaster took it big, and after narrowing the suspects down to the male half of my class (I forget how exactly), left us not uncertain of his displeasure, insisting through foam-flecked lips that we would stay in every break until someone owned up.

I decided to sit tight, especially as nobody suspected me, a fact that has never ceased to amaze. I mean it’s the old, old story isn’t it – he who smelt it dealt it and all that? But no, it seemed as though I was to be written out of this drama at the end of act one, which was fine with me. It meant the road to safety lay ahead – and if all they had to throw at me was a bit of silent detention – I was already tootling along it.

But nasty news was in the offing. The following day the Headmaster announced that we could forget Friday afternoon football if the culprit failed to come forward and I don’t mind admitting that this bulletin had much the same world-altering effect on me as an unexpected kick in the stomach from a seaside donkey. Believe me when I tell you I know. Things went black and sort of swam before me. Football, you see, was my thing, and I wouldn’t have missed it to please a dying relative. With an awful feeling of being caught in the machinery I now realised that I was the only person who could own up, and that if I didn’t, the ban would rumble on.

I didn’t much fancy revealing myself as the fiend in human shape whose hidden hand had caused all this break time captivity, and naturally recoiled from thoughts of all the askance looks and cold shoulders my fellow inmates would soon be hurling my way, but I had to put this out of mind. Now was the time to gird the loins, remember my fighting ancestors and let the preux chevalier in me prevail. It was time to confess.

It was nothing like I had imagined. No gnashing teeth. No frothing at the mouth. Not even a tapping foot or censorious finger waggle. And in place of the expected ‘shove him into a dungeon with dripping walls and see to it that he is well gnawed by rats’ was just a sotto ‘thank you’, so mild it even gave me the fortitude to ask if l could play football that afternoon (it was Friday by now). He said I could. Clouds parted, birds chirped, the sun shone and I revived like a watered flower, feeling never so strongly that God was in his heaven and all was right with the world.

Although I kept the details dark, I quickly ferried news about the lifting of the ban around the place, so was surprised that afternoon to find both changing room and pitch conspicuously empty of classmates (I wasn’t alone – there were three other classes that took football alongside mine). This left me a little mystified, but I’d had it straight from the Head that we could play, so just shrugged the shoulders and got on with it, scoring (if memory serves) a juicy hat trick into the bargain.

I would later discover that the absentees were still chained up in the classroom, copying out passages from the bible. The Head, wise to my enthusiasm for the beautiful game, didn’t buy a word of my confession and even thought it partially motivated by a desire to make a noble sacrifice in the interests of the greater good; subjecting his prisoners, so I heard, to some lengthy twitterings about how I was made of the right stuff and set a fine example each of them would do well to follow.

They had to pick litter up every break time for a term. I was made captain of the football team.

I think that’s what they call a result.
(Bailey07, Mon 2 Feb 2009, 12:44, 4 replies)

No subject needed

(Blue_in_Exile, Mon 2 Feb 2009, 12:36, 4 replies)