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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)
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This question is now closed.

This story happened just 4 years ago. As usual everybody was bored, standing around the yard at break when suddenly one mate (I shall call him L) produced a dildo from his bag. Being 15-16 and in a North Liverpool Comprehensive, the best use of this was obviously to hit people with it. So L ran around the yard hitting unsuspecting students with his dildo. 'Twas funny. Then another mate (let's call him P) had a much better idea. P took the bright pink dildo from L and waited by the door of the Humanities block for possibly the oldest teacher in the whole school to come out.

You can probably predict what happened next - and you'd be right! He took a run-up, clouted the teacher around the back of the head (knocking his glasses off in the process) and then ran full-pelt into the Humanities department and escaped. Now this would have been funny enough, but it gets better! At least 2-3 other mates had recorded the whole thing on their mobiles, so soon most of the school had seen it and P was a legend. I really wish I still had that video...
I saw L 2 weeks ago and for the first time I actually asked him why he had a dildo in his bag. His answer? "I don't have a fucking clue! I bought it to hit people with."

Length? It was about 8 inches and bright pink I believe.
(, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 10:15, 8 replies)
Sweary Kid

There was a kid at my school named Darren. It was an absolute fucking joy to have lessons with him because he had no concept that swearing in front of teachers when asked to respond to a question would get him into trouble.

When asked for a critique of D. H. Lawrence's Women In Love, he summed it up as:

"A story about blokes fucking."

And was promptly dispatched to the head's office.

The best Darren moment occured during biology when the ultra Catholic twunt teaching us explained that masturbation was a sin, and that God was watching if you defield your body with a quick nocturnal hand shandy.

Darren, sitting at the back of the class, piped up:

"God's watching...? What a fucking pervert..."

Darren works as a civil engineer now.
(, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 9:40, Reply)
Chemistry lesson
When I was but a young and impressionable Snabblim, our Chemistry teacher was a maniac Yorkshireman, who rejoiced in the moniker of Jack Tat.

On entering the lab one day, we saw a large sheet of perspex erected as a shield across the front of the teachers bench. Behind this was a bunsen burner tripod, and on this was a large tin can with a long piece of magnesium ribbon coming out of it. The whole was stood in a metal tray with about half an inch of sand in the bottom.

After the usual boring preamble, the class gathered that we were about to be shown a demonstration of the thermit reaction (google it for details). This was a VERY DANGEROUS procedure and under no circumstances should be attemped by other than skilled teachers etc etc.

A class of thirty or so boggle eyed 13 year olds watched as Jack applied a match to the magnesium ribbon to set the whole thing off. Except that it didn't. The magnesium wouldn't light. Jack scratched his head for a moment, then lighting a bunsen burner, he used it to heat the ribbon. Success!! It flared with a brilliant white flame and Jack put the bunsen burner down then came round to the 'safe' side of the screen,flipped down his own safety visor and told us to watch. The magnesium ribbon burned down into the tin and then-it spluttered-and went out.

Jack had put some time and effort into setting up his demonstration, and wasn't going to see it wasted. Very gingerly, he re-lit the bunsen burner, and crouching in front of the screen, held the burner round the side of it and directly heated the reaction mixture in the tin. After a few more minutes still nothing had happened. Muttering under his breath he put the bunsen down again. Inspiration struck. He fetched a second bunsen from out of the cupboard. Lighting this one as well, he attempted to reach round each side of the safety screen with them, but not having the armspan of a gibbon,he couldn't. Discarding his safety visor, he leaned over the TOP of the safety screen whilst heating the reaction mixture with the two bunsens.

Fucking Hell!!!! With a blinding flash of light the whole thing erupted in a cloud of smoke and flame. Right into Jacks' face. 'Arrgh my eyes' he yelled, or words to that effect,and stumbled backwards, dropping the bunsen burners in the process. Within a second or two there appeared be some sort of small thermonuclear reaction going on in the classroom (no fume cupboards in those days boys and girls) as the smoke, flame, and sparks increased in intensity. We were all transfixed. Chemistry was FUN!. The volcanic reaction reached a crescendo. Molten iron started to run out of the bottom of the tin can, through which it had melted its way-at some 2500 degrees centigrade. Sadly the sand tray was also totally inadequate to entirely contain the molten metal which, like the fabled China Syndrome, continued to sear its way into the thick wooden top of the bench. After a few minutes, which seemed like hours, the reaction exhausted it's fury, leaving only clouds of smoke and glowing globules of iron, cooling from white through to red and then black.

I don't remember much more about the lesson to be honest, though amazingly apart from a light singeing Jack appeared to be unscathed. He did later admit to increasing the amounts of reagents to about three times that recommended to make sure he got a good display. I don't think this demonstration was ever -erm-demonstrated again. The black, scorched, craters on the bench were still there when I left in 1975, and are no doubt still there to this day.
(, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 9:37, 9 replies)
English Lit
Despite it being one of my best subjects I was banned, for life, from English Literature and wasn't allowed to take my 'O' Level.

You see, what happened was.....

~~wavy lines~~~

I was sitting in English Lit, bored out of my skull. The teacher had us reading Chaucer's Prologue To The Canterbury Tales and it was one of those lessons where he was asking various people to read out sections and then asking questions about it.

So, seeing that I was sitting next to a book shelf, I grabbed a book, when the teacher wasn't looking, and put it inside my Chaucer book and read that instead.

It was much more interesting. It had plot, interesting characters and, at the end of every chapter, a twist in the tale.

So I was engrossed, happy, and was ignoring the rest of the class. Then...

"Legless" he boomed "Read from paragraph three!"

So I stood up (with my book still inside my Chaucer) and said in my best narrators voice.

"So Noddy said to Big-Ears........"

"OUT!!!" he screamed

(, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 9:18, 1 reply)
Not Schools, but Scouts.
I was a chubby little fucker when I was younger. Overweight some might say. I endured the years of fat related jibes at school etc.

I never really had much time for school, but I loved the scouts. I was good at it. You get badges for all sorts of ace things, Axe yielding, fire making, knife skills.

We used to meet on Monday evenings for a few hours and do all kinds of activities.
I was never the sportiest and usually got picked amongst the last for team games.

One guy however thought he was Johnny fucking Bravo, constantly trying to be alpha male. He was a vocal poncey show off.
He used to find it cool to swing from the door frame leading down the corridor to the sports room. One day he decided to pick on me asking if I could do it.
Of course there is no way my weakling arms can perform a pull up. Not in a million years. Even if I had lost 3 stone I still would never have done it. Twat boy knew this all too well. He mocked me throughout the entire evening much to the mirth of other kids.

All night I could feel the rage building under the surface, never showing but definitely there. This guy had wronged me and revenge was needed.

Cue next Monday. We are all outside in the wooded area playing kick the can or some other outdoorsy game, when I ask if I may use the toilet.

When inside on my own, I take several drawing pins from the cork notice board and place them point up on the ledge that twat boy uses to swing on above the door.

Oh how I wish the digital camera was around in those days. The twat screamed like a little girl, I believe he even dropped to his knees in a dramatic attempt to relay his pain. Not dissimilar to the front cover of Platoon.
I could not hide me glee.

I remember the leaders having to take him away from me cause he was on the warpath.
Still, he never fucking bothered me again.

We shook hands, both admitted we had been twats and that was that really.
(, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 9:05, 2 replies)
Monkeysex Pugilistics
When I was twelve years old my family moved from an RAF base in Germany, to a leafy little village in Surrey, and I found myself in a civilian school for the first time ever.
It was alien to me, military kids are very well disciplined; they behave and respect their elders. There was even a hierarchy in the playground, depending on the rank of the child’s parent, and the intelligence of the child themselves. The civilian hierarchy was the almost the exact opposite, the biggest kids were in charge, and then there were the good looking ones, then the geeks and the finally the Über geeks.

On my first day I made the mistake of sitting at the back of the class, where the two largest and most intimidating bullies, Ricky, a tall, blonde chavvy kid, and Steve, a gigantic, muscle-bound lummox, sat. After a few weeks I distanced myself from them and started to join a new friendship group, but they didn’t like that, and while on my way to a History lesson, Ricky flicked the back of my ear with an elastic band at point blank range.
It stung like hell, and without thinking I spun around and told him to fuck off. He got right into my face and snarled through yellow teeth, ‘What are you going to do about it?’ Nursing my sore ear, and my pride in front of my new friends, I just stared back. ‘You wanna fight about it?’ he barked.
I was pretty sensitive about my ears back then, they’ve always stuck out.
‘Yeah,’ I said, not really sure what I was letting myself in for. He looked like he was slightly taken aback, he wasn’t really expecting that response, or what I said next. ‘…but we’ll have to fight at lunchtime, my bus leaves really early and I don’t want to miss it.’

So the rumble was agreed, the next day at lunchtime we were going to meet in the field and fight, all because he’d flicked my ear. News spread, I received congratulations and commiserations wherever I went, people I didn’t know were telling me that I was going to get killed, but thanking me for standing up to him.
The pressure was building, the morning before the fight my guts were churning, but I wasn’t too worried. Ricky wasn’t much taller than me, but he was about the same build. I hadn’t been in any real fights before, so I didn’t know what to expect, whereas Ricky looked like he’d been in a few, he had the confident air of a boy who had regularly kicked other boys in the teeth.

Lunchtime rolled up, and I waited by the CDT block with my friends gathered around me. Then more people gathered around me. I had most of the boys in the year egging me on, urging me to find Ricky and initiate combat. He was waiting by the picnic benches, with Steve and a few other mean kids.
The pressure was really getting to me now, every muscle in my body was going tense, and I was physically shaking, I could feel adrenaline coursing through my veins, and I stomped over to where the enemy stood.

I squared up to him, a crowd of fifty or more people standing around us. He smirked at me, and without a moment’s hesitation I threw the first punch.
I connected perfectly with the side of his face, his teeth rattled against my knuckles, and he fell to the floor like a sack of potatoes.
A sudden rush of victory came over me, here I was, standing over one of the biggest bullies in the school, and all it had taken was a single punch. I felt like the fucking king of the universe.
Except the fight wasn’t over, I’d missed my chance to keep Ricky down. I should have dived on him, kicking and punching like a maniac, because in the time that I’d paused, he was getting back up. ‘Oh fuck. Ohfuckofuckofuck’.

He must have been dazed because he threw three punches, and all of them missed, but as I ducked and stepped back to avoid his violent swinging fists, somebody in the crowd behind me stuck their foot out. I fell down, and Ricky capitalised on the opportunity, I could feel his school shoes hitting my in the stomach, but I didn’t feel any pain. The adrenalin rush had numbed me completely, he could have beaten me to death and I wouldn’t have cared.

Luckily I had a saviour in the crowd, a guy in year 11 who got the same bus as me stepped into the fray. This guy was huge. He pulled Ricky off me and said, ‘Oi, stop it,’ when the crowd asked why, he replied simply, ‘because this kid gets on my bus.’

I got up, dusted myself off and walked back out through the crowd, which had doubled since the start of the fight. Most of my friends looked at me disappointedly, not because I’d lost, but because I’d been fighting at all.
The school bell rang and we returned to class, but Ricky wasn’t there. As the teacher was taking afternoon registration, Steve walked into the room, and very politely told me that the headteacher wanted to see me. A little bit of me died.
I walked the fifty yards to the head teacher’s office, dragging my heavy feet beneath me, and I sat on a little chair in the reception area, next to my adversary.

I couldn’t have felt prouder at that moment, looking at Ricky. I’d deflated him completely; the whole side of his face that I’d managed to hit was bright red, and looked really swollen and sore, while I didn’t have a single mark on me. I couldn’t help letting out a little chuckle when I saw him. He couldn’t even look at me, and didn’t bother me again.

We both got suspended for three days.
(, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 8:55, 2 replies)
Watership Down
You could make Paul Barnes cry by singing "bright eyes" to him.

It was a few years later when we discovered the reason - his mother was a rabbit!

Edit: Not really. She was a pianist called Hazel.
(, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 8:43, 1 reply)
I had lots of good times at school
and lots of bad times

I'm going to have to write something epic later on, but not just yet.

We had a teacher who didn't really specialise in anything, we had her for Music, English, maybe some other subjects occasionally.

I'm surprised it took us so long to come up with it, as we met her in year 9 and only made the joke in the middle of our GCSE's when she was the exams officer, and a very shouty one at that.

Her name was Miss Woodcock,
while we were waiting to go in for an exam my friend says to me "Oh, Miss Timberdick wants us to go inside"

I'm still chuckling now
(, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 8:16, Reply)
Food fight
I can't remember the teacher's name, but we were in Biology doing some potato-starch expirement - we were paired up in our usual pairs (Lorna and I were paired as per usual as she did all the hard work and we both got the grade - it worked like that for years!)

Lorna was easily the brightest, cleverest person in the year and never had to try too hard but always got the highest grades - but she was also one of the troublemakers, but the teachers never spotted this...

This time, however, we decided that we'd both act up. We got extra potatos and cut them up good and fine.

Our usual partners in crime (separated from us across the room after the infamous acid fire incident) Helen and Ian were over the other side of the room and they clearly had the same idea as us, but we started it.

By throwing, not one, but a handful of tiny pieces of potato at them across the room. They reciprocated. And everyone joined in.

The teacher just sat there, mouth agape, as the room decended into this hail of potatos as, clearly, everyone had the same idea.

She let this go on a few minutes before shouting to get us to stop and "CLEAR THIS BLOODY MESS UP. NOW!"

Followed, shortly, by "JTW. Lorna. Get here. Now!"

We had to stand at the front of the class, guffawing like idiots trying hard to stifle a laugh.

At the end of the (failed) class, everyone was dismissed and the telling off began.

Well, it didn't really as she tried telling us off - clearly knowing full well that we'd started it (we didn't even try to deny it) - even she saw the funny side as we tried to suppress a smirk and failed which decended into all three of us in hysterics to the point where the teacher clearly knew that she had no moral high ground on which to stand and sent us out.

So the moral, dear reader is, is to laugh in your teacher's face.

Ok, well, don't, but it worked for me that time :)
(, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 7:03, Reply)
Primary School
Well, in the spirit of the ice and snow we're having....

This was at Primary school and while not funny for me, has had a lasting impact on my life. Well, my teeth really.

I was 8, I think, and we were sliding on the ice - these were the days when it snowed and froze properly for about 4 months at a time, none of this snow for 3 days nonsense!

Anyhoo, I was sliding on the icy ground, showing off my majestic sliding ability - woo - look at me, watch me go.

Watch me stop. Suddenly. Where the ice stops.

Watch me, comedically, fall face down on the ground - hands not stopping me (apparently).

Watch my face explode....

Well, I'm sure it was funnier for other people, but I now have a bridge where my front tooth was and I spent the rest of my school days with a (removable) false tooth.

Oh the fun...
(, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 6:49, Reply)
Fire Fire !
I'd bore you with stories of how shit my life was at (Nun run) Primary school and that I have NO happy memories of it, but I won't.


One of the funniest things I remember doing was in Chemistry:

Myself and Darrell (I think) found that Ethanol burned. A lot :)

We used to pour it on the desk and set fire to it. Fun fun. But how can we top that, we wondered. Easy.

We (well, I) poured several bottles over 4 adjoining desks - the type that were separated by 2 sinks. Ethanol in those too while we're at it. Now, how to light it.....

Easy - go to the other side of the classroom and turn on a gas tap. And light it.

Cue about 5 foot of flame shooting across the room up to the desk, followed by a short "woof" as the desks and sink all flame up - pretty impressively, I might add. Cue much screaming, shouting and other such general fun :)

I got banned from Chemistry that day :D
(, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 6:46, Reply)
had been interesting at school, mostly because I was A) good at it as per GCSE standards B)in the top set because of A) and so had decent teachers who not only knew their stuff but weren't that pressured to make sure we knew the syllabus - most of us were more than capable. And so they were more relaxed and prone to messing about like pouring ethanol on the table and lighting it, or sticking the gas cable into washing up liquid and lighting that, and, even better than those pyromanical spectacles, letting us doing the 'teacher only' experiments that student's shouldn't perform.

On one such day I had both of my hands bandaged up; a skiing accident had left me with a multitude of broken fingers and a mangled thumb, complete with the nail completely ripped off. As hands are difficult to set all that the hospital did was tape them all together, with a splint to make my thumb straight.

I was paired up with my friend (she did most of the practical stuff) and we set up our experiement. I can't remember exactly what we were supposed to be doing, but involved some white powdery substance and hydrochloric acid in a boiling tube.

The teacher had given his lecture on what we were supposed to be doing and hoping to achieve, and how we had to be CAREFUL with the boiling tubes; he didnt wan't any broken and every one returned to the box at the end of the lesson.

Well, everything is going well - the first half of the experiment went according to what we expected, and we were slowly increasing either how much acid we were using or how much of the powder (I can't remember which) but for some reason, and why is probably down to it being too hot, the boiling tube exploded.

All over me.

The teacher was drawn to the lound sound of a mini explosion and my subsequent shout of being shocked. No damage was done, everything was fine...

...until i noticed my right hand was on fire. The bandages covering my mangled right hand had caught fire in the confusion, but because of the dressing I hadn't felt it. I panic and shake my hand about, until the teacher reaches us and throws his jacket over my hand to starve the flame.

It was more embarassing than painful, I guess. Thankfully we didn't get a bollocking for breaking the boiling tube.

Length? About 10 seconds before I realised.
(, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 6:05, Reply)
...Or 'Po-yetry' as they pronounce it in my home town was the order of the day in Higher English, which I was resitting, along with a couple of mates who also paid little attention the first time.
The teacher was taking us through the 'imagery' in this poem and a particular line about the picking of wild flowers - 'Sleekloon - you like picking wild flowers,' she says, quite without provocation in an attempt to get someone in the class to answer a question.
'Yes!', I say, then stand, singing '...I put on women's clothing and hang around in bars!'
My mate sat next to me then stands up immediately and helps me with the chorus, before we both sit back down and grin at the teacher who was quite lost for words, as I recall. The chap sat opposite us had gone beetroot red and tried to make it quite plain that he was not associated with either of these mentals at his table.
(, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 5:34, 1 reply)
So I Married a Primary School Teacher
Little did I know, the affect of young 20-30 year old female teachers on a young boy growing up, learning and watching his body grow *coughs*. How I wondered what was being talked about in the teachers communal during break times..

Many years have passed, and I am now married to a 23 year old Primary School Teacher, enjoying how horny she is - if the kids found out they'd have a heart attack.. and I get to hear what the teachers talk about.

Mostly about who's been a 'little shit' today, and which ones they would like to bury under the playground..that sort of thing.

It made me think.. I wonder if the teachers used to say the same thing about me?
(, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 5:19, 2 replies)
Yeah, I was a complete dick to my teacher and laughed when other kids assaulted and bullied the weak and fragile kids at school. At least I can boast about it online... er...
(, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 4:39, Reply)
One of my GCSE options was business studies. Unfortunately, holding an actual interest in the subject didn't really make a difference in such an (how should I put this?) 'academically challenged' environment. The teacher of said subject wasn't much of a stickler for discipline, hence each lesson was generally regarded as down-time and a chance to mock and jape for an hour or so, as young teens are wont to do.

Since this particular educator was in posession of no air of authority to speak of, she was shown no more mercy than the kid who would pretend to use his calculator as a police radio.

One day she shared the informational gem that she had formerly been a photographic 'foot and hand' model. In the aforementioned environment, this simply begged to become a rather imaginative round of "too ugly to be a proper model" type comments. Unsurprisingly, she soon left to do some photocopying or somesuch task which involved being gone for fifteen minutes before reappearing with freshly applied makeup.

The occasion that sticks in my mind came about a few months into the school year. There was nothing too different about class that day, but the mockery and insults had grown to a viscious level among pupils. The teacher either had some sort of educational epiphany, or more likely received a bollocking from her head of department about our frankly pathetic progression through the curriculum.

Trying to get a pack of thirteen-year-olds to apply themselves must be difficult in itself. I imagine this is compunded on sunny Friday afternoons. Her appeals to complete her scheduled tasks met general disapproval among the class. There were a few refusals along the lines of; "You want it done so much, YOU fucking do it!".

One particular 6'2" pubescent must have missed his lunchtime spliff or something, as his response to the teachers insructions were unduly harsh. Obviously, this is now in wavy lines territory so I cannot remember verbatim although it was along the lines of:
"Why don't you have a bath Miss? That perfume doesn't stop you smelling of cat piss. I'm not answering your shitty questions so you can either shut up or just fuck off and die."

I actualy felt true pity for the woman, obiously disempowered and failing to gain a shred of respect from a group of underachievers on whom she was trying to impart some useful knowledge.

I feel guilty for watching without intervention as a silent, single tear rolled down her cheek before she retired to her supply room and the comfort of her beloved Smirnoff. I never saw her again, and endured a string of typically uninspiring supply teachers until the end of the year. how the fuck I managed to scrape a C in the GCSE is a mystery, even to me. I strongly suspect that I was in the slim minority who actually sat the exam though.

Jus re-read. Apols for literary images of cruelty and lack of teh funneh's.
(, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 1:44, Reply)
Cool sciency buzz words.
My year 11 science room was rather unimpressive as far as science rooms go, no pickled rabbits or anything else cool, just a few display boards and some handmade blood cells hanging from the ceiling.
There was also a wall with a few poorly formatted MS word posters printed on colour paper, each one with a scientific word on like, hypothesis or semen (not semen though, I just can't think of any more.) One poster read "Analysing" so naturally me and my chum-pals folded it over in the middle so it read "Analing" tee-hee.

Unfortunately I got the blame as a few days later I got sent out for talking and generally lolling about and a mate of mine decided to fuck me over for a laugh and said "And look at what chrisdood did to that poster" whilst gesturing at our handywork. Shame for him teacher didn't care and everyone laughed at my wallbound brainchild.
(, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 0:35, Reply)
Craft lessons
At the tender age of 8 craft lessons consisted of balsa wood sculpture, papier mâché and tissue paper. One fine lesson at the beginning of November we were granted permission to make a Guy. Teacher had laid on the materials all we needed to provide were his garments.

The lesson progressed as we scrunched up the newspaper we needed to fill Guy out. The paper balls were then inserted into numerous pairs of nylon tights and old Fawkes took shape.

Being the class clown, I was constantly on the lookout for something foolish to do, I pulled a pair of tights over my head and looked at my classmates.

"Bleurgh," says I " they smell of Mrs Frape's fanny!"

Unfortunately, form tutor Mrs Frape was stood behind me at the time...
(, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 0:35, Reply)
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)
My school photo
All the Asian boys found themselves in the same area, so surreptitiously moved themselves around until they were standing in a line. It's dead easy to find me - I'm the second white guy at one end of the line of brown faces. Not sure that they ever got in trouble for it because I don't think the head wanted to appear racist.
(, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 0:22, Reply)
Drugs and shit.
A friend of mine from sixth form recently told me about the time the fuzz came to his upper to tell the kiddies about drugs.
They had brought 4 fake joints to pass around the crowd in the assembly. The visiting police officer was insistent that he was to get 4 doobies back at the end of his talk.

He got 5.
(, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 0:17, 3 replies)
B3ta got me into trouble (almost)
Well, I have spent a long time trying to think of something amusing for this QOTW, and failed. So here is the sorry tale of how b3ta got me into trouble (almost). As I am still enjoying the farce that is catholic education, this sorry story takes place just mere months ago.

It doesn't really deserve squiggly lines, it was mere months ago...

As a young sprog I was gifted with higher than average intelegence (not as easy as the daily mail would have you believe) and well practiced in the art of cheating (and not getting caught) I am in a high achieving maths class, and this story takes place in just that lesson, in a cold, harsh decembers day, nearing the season of goodwill.

It was common practice for the teachers pets, and those failing class, to pen a festive goodwill to the teacher (and maybe a bottle of his favourite tipple to boost your mark just a little higher)these would then be displayed on a large grey filing cabinet.

Annoyed at such a blatant display of suck-up-ery I recalled a gem from the ever-popular christmas card image challenge. Using my spare pen (different colour, I am gifted remember)I scrawl "The Credit's Crunching, Times Are Hard, Here's Your Fucking Christmas Card" on a spare piece of graph paper, folded landscape. Quickly signing it "To Mr.Poncytits (may not be real name) Merry Chrimbo, From yr. 11"

I passed it to my friend who sat on the row behing me. Oh how we chuckled. I was a comedy genius.

All was well, I laughed, he laughed. Then he passed it to popular kid. Popular kid lauged. I was in with the comedy ELITE. But then my heart sinks. The offending artcicle is passed around the class. Everyone has a mighty chuckle at the b3ta inspired masterpiece until *Oh CRAP* the card is in possesion of none other than sir himself. He reads the front. *I quiver slightly* His hairy, mathematical brow creases *Im posivively shitting myself* And he lets out a supressed laugh. I'm in the clear! I thought, as he opens the card. His tiny, maths teacher brain tries to process the message inside. It can only be a carefully crafted insult, he thinks.

"The person who wrote THIS" He says with distain as all the muscles in my anus contract to a diamond-forming intensity, "Shall be sent to Mr.Evil-head-of-year" My heart sank to the deep, dark recesses of my size elevens (Im not tall, I just have clown feet)

Time passes by, I have ten minuites until the bell rings, no-one has said my name, but if I don't own up I know there will be a whole class interogation, and I will be universally hated, and most likely found out. It is the time for ten-munuite-trivia at the end of the day, and the coming clean period is dissapearing fast. Until...

"NAME! Who is the current mayor of London?" A tiny, balls-in-vice squeak eminates from my voicebox, a variation on the usual post-pubescent baritone "BorrisJohnson, and... well... iwrotethehorriblyoffensivechristmascard." Sir looks stunned (I generally try to hide from teachers my past experieces with class C drugs, mild alcoholism and lewd conversations about ejaculating on my own face in a soundproof music room full of girls)

He approached me afterwards, and described my punishment (an after-school on the last day of term) whilst trying to stifle a blatant giggling fit. Using my wit and charm*, I had managed to convince him of the innocent nature of the card. Never did turn up to that detention, and my crime was never mentioned again (Until the first day back, when I foolishly dyed my black Tom Baker noggin-pubes bright blonde)

And that, fellow b3tans, is how you, collectively, got me into trouble. I hope you are pleased.

*Wit and charm not guarenteed to be prevalent in this post

Apologies for length, but i'll save the cock gags for the one where I ejaculate onto my face.
(, Mon 2 Feb 2009, 23:13, Reply)
Pooflake's picture reminds me...
We used to have an entire school group picture every other year or so.
After the final print was released for idiotic parents to pay £70 for it was always a treat to scour the 600+ pupils for those belming; gurning; having their knob out; and one time, a lobster.
(, Mon 2 Feb 2009, 23:12, Reply)
All of the last two years of school
The boyfriend and I would skive off and shag the days away.

School were brilliant.
(, Mon 2 Feb 2009, 23:06, 3 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)
Primary school, first year..
..myself and new best buddy Max were very young, but we thought we were the coolest. We used to make up crazy stories and laugh like drains at their silliness. We shunned the other kids to hang out together and fantasise. Good times. (so maybe I've questioned my sexuality a few times in the past but that has nothing to do with max and I being mutually exclusive best buddies for about 8 years.. err..)

One day when everyone is knocking around the playground skipping, playing football, lamping each other etc. we walk past our classroom and look in. Everything is arranged neatly as there is a classroom rule about putting things in order before going out to play. The door has been left unlocked and open. It is too tempting.

In what could be one of my finest efforts at subversion yet Max and I didn't just tear into the room and pull it apart like normal 6 year olds (or however old first-year primary pupils are); rather we went round the room and methodically pulled every chair out from under the desks, lifting them upside-down on top of the desks as per the hometime ritual.

When we got caught is the earliest instance I remember getting told off for anything. And we got quite a rollocking. Parents were informed. I recall feeling extraordinarily bad about it, not really comprehending what we'd done, just that we had heiniously broken the rules and that this was a very bad thing and that we were a couple of incorrigeable ne'er-do-wells for life.

Still not sure what to think about it..
(, Mon 2 Feb 2009, 21:33, 3 replies)
3 years ago
When I was 14 years old, I was getting into a lot of trouble at school.

One day, we were enduring a mindnumbingly boring drugs talk (come on, like anyone actually takes a blind bit of notice), which happened to be in the computer room. Me and my friend (Will) stumbled across a church sign generator while gormlessly surfing the internet (which can be found here btw: www.churchsigngenerator.com/classic1.php )

After the predictable (pre)pubescent jokes, which consisted of generating a church sign saying "MAX IS A CUNT"/"WILL'S MUM TAKES IT UP THE NOSTRIL" in big bold letters and saving it as your background, we decide to go one step further, and write about one of the biggest losers in the school (Harry).

From what I remember, it said something like:


or something similar.

Anyway, as soon as the drugs talk had finished, we stayed behind to print 7 of these posters off on A3 paper.
And set to work.

10 minutes later a poster was pinned to each one of the main noticeboards around the school, and one was placed strategically into his folder for maximum effect.

An hour later, in my ICT lesson, the headmaster storms in with an A3 piece of paper clutched in his sweaty paw. He demanded the ICT teacher to find out who printed off the "atrocity".
He fiddles with the mouse and keyboard on his computer for a minute (I was shitting myself, quite literally at this point, for I could not remember whose school account we used to print off the posters).
I listened closely, my heart beating rapidly, my face paler than the elegant white it usually was, I heard the faint whisper "er..William Sinclair".

I relaxed, but not for long, as I needed to find Will urgently to make sure he didn't grass me up.

I didn't see him until assembly, later that day, where he had been made to sit on his own, away from everyone else, at the back of the hall. I needed to make contact with him somehow, so, at the end of the assembly, which seemed to take decades, when we were all leaving, I told him as I passed him, "don't grass me up fool".

Most of the school knew the whole story by now, and I was truly amazed that the teachers never found out I was involved. I didn't get in any shit for it, so I was jumping for joy.

The next thing I heard Will had been suspended for 5 days. His punishment was extended due to the fact that Harry had been found in his study clutching the piece of paper in his chubby little mits, in tears.
Also, the fact that he was Jewish and the message had been on a Christian church sign, had something to do with it...

I was laughing for days.
(Btw, don't feel sorry for Harry, as he was a complete Wanker, and one of the most arrogant, attention seeking and rudest people I ever met - hope you're reading ;D).

Anyway yeah, sorry for the length, I got a bit carried away...
(, Mon 2 Feb 2009, 21:05, Reply)
The custard pie incident
My family and I lived in Helensburgh for about four years, when I was but a youngun, and I went to a Catholic school in a nearby town.

After a couple of years there it was fairly clear it wasn't working out for us, and my parents decided to move away.

I'd decided to myself that I wanted to make a lasting impression - people in the shool would remember me, goddammit! So I asked an older lad what he suggested.

He suggested putting custard pies in the teachers faces. I suspect he was joking, now, but at the time my youthful desire for immortaility cried "fucking great idea!"

So I visited the local jokeshop and bought some custard pie mixture - basically an aerosol canister of harmless foam.

My last day at the school came round, and I went to school with a collection of paper plates and the foam. I'd told a few mates what I was up to, and inevitably used up all of the foam pie-ing them before school started.

So, I wandered off down to the local chemist to liberate some hair mousse at lunchtime.

While after-lunch registration was being called, I went to my favourite Maths teachers class. I sprayed a good dollop of hair mousse onto a plate, and hid it behind my back,in my left hand, as I sauntered into the class.

"Hi, Mr. McHugh", I said (my heart beating hard in my chest) "I just wanted to say thanks for being an ace teacher. Can I shake your hand?".

He offered his hand, and I shook it then pulled down with all my might so that the top of his head was low enough for me to reach. (This was actually quite important to me, as I didn't want to hurt anyone and hair mousse probably stings if you get it in the eyes).

Then "WALLOP" - I plonked the sticky mess on top of his head.

There was silence as what had just transpired sank in and then...

Bedlam - absolute bedlam as the 1st years in the classroom exploded with laughter at the sight of poor chalk mc-cue with a custard pie on his head.

To his credit, he just laughed and shook my hand and said "Well done, WeeDom. Good luck at your next school".

I legged it to my next target - Mr. Budas in the geography section. This is where it started to go wrong. (Actually, that's not true - it began to go wrong the moment the stupid idea entered my head!!)

I walked into Mr. Budas' room, and pulled the exact same trick. I pulled Mr. Budas head towards me and delivered the pie as planned.

More bedlam, more kids crying with laughter.

Mr. Budas wasn't quite as understanding, though, and tried to keep hold of me. I was having none of it! Fuelled by adrenalin and my youthful desire for immortality, I got free of him and legged it to my next victim, whose name I now forget - McGivern, perhaps? McGovan? (shrug)

I knocked on his door and it became apparent that news travels fast - faster than me, at any rate.

Mr. McWhatever opened the door and charged out of it. Without even breaking step, he had me by the collar pressed up against the wall. I didn't even have time to draw my pie - it was now dripping down my school trousers.

He marched me straight to the headmasters office. Thankfully by that time corporal punishment had been banned, otherwise I don't think I'd be able to sit down even now, 21 years later.

Amongst other unkind things, they called me a taxi and sent me home to my parents. Who were somewhat less than amused, as I recall.

The less funny side of the story came when it emerged that Mr. Budas was allergic to the hair mousse, and wanted to press charges of assault. Worse, my parents had scrimped and saved for me to go on holiday with the school to Italy at the end of term, in about a weeks time.

Naturally, I was suspended until the end of term - expelled, really, since I was leaving.

My Dad, love him, had to crawl pretty damn low to convince the teachers going on the trip that this was an anomaly and would most certainly not be repeated on the trip. Somehow he convinced them, and I got my trip to Italy. (I was as good as gold, obviously!)

Thanks, Dad!

Dad is still furious about this, incidentally. 21 years later I still can't tell the story, or even allude to it, if he's around.

Immortality achieved? I don't know. Are there any b3tans from Dumbarton, or the surrounds, who remember the story?
(, Mon 2 Feb 2009, 21:04, 6 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)
I hated cricket. Not only was it a long and tedious game, but those balls could really fucking hurt.

This was discovered by two kids at my school on two very different occasions.

The first was during a mongs game. While the kids who could play were off wasting an afternoon throwing a piece of leather towards some bits of wood, us non-cricket playing spanners were cocking about on a small scrap of field, gently tossing the ball in the general direction of the stumps, so the batter could swing wildly at thin air, usually relinquishing their grip on the bat at the top of the swing, then running anyway.

I forget the names of the ball chucker and the bat thrower, but I remember that it was Tom who was at the chucker's end. He thought he'd be safe if he crouched down in front of the stumps, but he should have known better. He'd played mong cricket before. He knew that underarm bowling was de rigeur among the sport spaz's. He should have guessed that the ball would be released with no control, directly into his grinning face. The game was abandoned after that due to a bout of utter hysteria among the players.

The second incident is quite unlikely, and I wouldn't believe it ever happened had I not been there to witness it with these two eyes that I'm looking at this screen with at this very moment.

We were in the school gym and people were standing at the end of the nets having cricket balls flung at them at a frightening pace. I don't know why I was there, but I spent the entire time in fear for my life and nervously watching everything that was going on.

The same can't be said of another boy. A portly lad who I'll call Leighton, as I think that's what his parents named him, was chatting casually at the end of the nets, facing the wall from which the bowlers (these weren't of the mong variety) began their speedy run up.

I can't remember who was batting, but I remember him hitting an almighty shot that sailed the length of the gym, struck the far wall and made its return journey at quite a pace. Leighton, too distracted by his conversation for someone in the close vicinity of quick flying cricket balls, found himself to be a temporary recipient of an extra ball in his testicular region.

Needless to say the session was abruptly closed due to debilitating laughter among the participants.
(, Mon 2 Feb 2009, 20:48, Reply)

This question is now closed.

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