twat
one of my teachers in high school was a little odd. as in that he wasn't like the other "this is a catholic school" teachers.
in one of our lessons we were all a bit bored and he changed the subject to what is your favourite word.
he decided to tell us in great detail about why he thought the word twat was his favourite word.
he started telling us how great he feels when he gets to shout twat as loud as he can so he started shouting "TWAT TWAT TWAAAAAAAAAAAT!"
as loud as he could.

our head of year cut that lesson short.
(i eat crayons, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 18:47, Reply)

Bad words...
John hadn't been to England before.

He came from Japan and spoke very little English.

Within days his vocabulary flourished, though not necessarily with the words needed to succeed in life.

But he was keen and wanted desperately to use the words he'd been given.

An attempt at long jump soon highlighted the misguided lessons he'd received.

And the very straight laced, deeply religious PE teacher didn't appreciated his outburst at getting his run up badly wrong.

"Shit, fuck, cock, wank, tits, fuck." wasn't quite the anticipated display of frustration, and our laughter left no doubt as to who was responsible for teaching John the "bad words".

Detentions were handed out quite liberally.
( Moey, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 18:06, Reply)

The Gentleman's Guide
*Warning* Long post ahead! No refunds if disappointed!

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

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

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

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

**************

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

************

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

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

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

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

First time, please be gentle, etc.
(unimaginative_username, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 17:58, 6 replies)

Schools were mad looking back
Sand Pits
Was anyone else banned from the primary school sand pit because there was always dog or cat shit in the sand? This also seemed to be the case with the long jump pit in secondary school. What was it with sand pits and poo? I think I only ever got to play in the sand pit once in the 7 years that I was at primary school.

Temporary Buildings
How was it that temporary buildings were anything but? The 'terrapins' (why were they even called this?) that were erected at my primary school when I was there are still being used there today about 19 years later! I've known permanent buildings that didn't survive that long!

We also had a fort... yes a whole fort... in the field at primary school, proper two storey job with battlements. That got knocked down while I was there due to health and safety despite being in good nick. An irony considering the terrapins.

Fire Drills
Did anyone else have a severe reaction to their first fire drill?

I must have been 6-7 and the whole class was sat around, legs crossed in the communal area for storytime when the alarm went.

For some reason that day we had all bought in some sort or toy or book from home, and I think I had bought in a model trains book or something like that.

On the alarm sounding the teacher proceeded to calmly say to the rest of the class "It's ok, we all need to calmly stand and walk...".

I however had different ideas. I believe I started to make a doppler like sound that started very quietly and increased in volume

"uuuuaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRGH!!!!"

I proceeded to run a couple of circles around the teacher and then ran out into the main classroom and to my drawer (every kid had a drawer where all their work was kept) to retrieve my book and save it from the fire.

"uuuuUAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!!

By the time I got back to my classmates they had been neatly arranged in a line and were waiting for me to join them. I remember their faces watching me as I joined the end of the line, tears streaming down my face as I clutched my book closer to my chest.

The rest of them were happy of course as they had been told what a fire drill was. I however had missed the lesson where the class had been prepared for fire drills.

Hand-Writing
During most of primary school, we were forced to use fountain pens and nothing else when doing work. I guess this encouraged better hand writing skills, but it meant near euphoria when at the end of primary school and the start of 'big' school we would need biros for our work. Biros!!! Real actual biros!!!

Dirt and Smells
I never remember primary school being particularly dirty, but my abiding memory of secondry school was a constant smell of stale or mouldy sandwich filling. There always seemed to bo someone's liver paste sandwich stuck to a window or a ceiling somewhere.

And of course there were staligtites worth of chewing gum on the underneath of ALL desks in the school. I remember being particularly put out when I accidently hit my knee against the underside of a desk and encountered a freshly laid piece of gum which had now become one with my school trousers. I had to go to a science teacher, who told me I would need to change into my PE shorts so they could freeze my trousers and chip off the gum. It was a very weird thing to sit through a normal lesson in my PE shorts.

End of Term
End of term at primary school always seemed to involve a day where we bought in toys so everyone could share (of course there were inevitable moments of jealousy at witnessing some of the more spoilt kids toys) or we would sit in the school hall and watch a film on tape, disney or similar, like the Little Mermaid, or Land before Time (which of course made everyone cry) or at christmas; Santa Clause: The Movie which according to IMDb was utter dross but we loved it at the time.

End of Term at secondry school was usually un-eventful except for the few times where we would have the only PE lesson that I have ever enjoyed: mass dodgeball. There would be something like 250 kids packed into the sports-hall. The teachers would throw maybe 8 balls into the middle of the hall, retreat to the edge of the hall and blow a whistle. What would then be set in motion was something more akin to 300 than a high school PE lesson. The game was a last man standing arrangement so there would a mad rush for the balls, then a mass retreat by all those who couldn't get a ball away from those who did. Initially there would be small groups against others. Boys against girls, then bullies against geeks etc etc. My one clear memory was the moment of realisation when it turned out the boys had managed to capture all the balls and the girls fled screaming, like a flock of herded ducks into the corner of the hall. It was like shooting fish in a barrel.

Eventually you would end up with 248 kids sat around the edge of the sportshall watching two guys battling it out for the final glory. After a while one would fall and the game would end. It was a great thing to do at school as it got everyone involved and everyone enjoyed it. It was such chaos that it was the only time a weedy guy might get to finally beat his bully at something. I'd make them compulsory at schools if I could. It would solve the obesity epidemic instantly.
(stubbledchin, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 17:38, 3 replies)

him
this is a story about a boy who just found RE a bit boring.

well it was getting towards the end of the day and we had RE, now in its self RE is a doss lesson (even the theacher had that opinion). and the teacher was trying to teach something or another when all of a sudden a silence fell across the class as all eyes turned to face a boy, well more specificaly his table, from which a steady rap tap tap was eminating.

now the boy in question, lets call him DJB then noticed the attention focused on him and the tapping steadly died as his face reddend.
he still to this day refuses to admit that he was trying to add his own detrius to the bottom of the table other than the gum. however there is one more thing that i find disturbing is that he has onocation rammbled about his fathers testicles and about how he is Quote " about to get ready to suck"
(radial head fracture, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 17:37, 2 replies)

my brother
went to an all-boys school. hundreds of horrid, muddy knee'd little william browns all over the place.

they had one teacher with a bit of a speech impediment. he clearly had no idea how to control a class, and my brother would frequently return home with tales of how they had reduced him to gibbering rage.

one day, in the heat of the july sunshine, a stupid child named chris kept raising his hand and saying, "mister flynn, mister flynn. please can i play in the snow with the monkeys?"

eventually, flynn snapped. he buried his head in his arms, and howled, "why? why are you boys making my life hell?"

it's 20 years since my brother told me this, and it STILL makes me want to cry for the poor man. kids can be little shits.
( rachelswipe with a fork, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 17:29, 2 replies)

The school freak
Let's call him Y

During a rugby match he squatted and did a dump in the middle of the pitch, then started throwing it.

Urinated on a 6th former while in the first year (beats ensued).

Asked a teacher for a blow job.

The classic was when he called up a classmates mum in the middle of the day and told her he's fallen out of a window and died. She got a shocker when he came home

Length? girth? not very big, we all saw cos he flashed it round a bit
(alpha doesn't have a witty phrase to write here, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 17:11, Reply)

looking back, probably one of the most intelligent, non fuck witted teachers i ever had was Mr Potts
unfortunately he had no control whatsoever over us. people would just walk in and out of his classes and he could do nothing to stop them.

We would also tease him relentlessly.

One class though he seemed a bit down, so we keep asking him why in loud voices (not that we gave a shit, it was just to fray his nerves further)

"WHAT'S THE MATTER MR POTTS?!" we gleefully shouted.

"WHAT'S THE MATTER MR POTTS?!"

"WHAT'S THE MATTER MR POTTS?!"

"My wife just died"

oh.
( monstrinho do biscoito teeeshurts = www.nogunarmy.com, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 16:40, Reply)

Smegheads
Reading one of the below has just reminded me...

Turning up to a "home clothes" day in the 5th year sporting jeans and a Red Dwarf T-shirt. It wasn't so much the choice of show that spurred the teachers into demanding I cover it up, more the quotation on the front:

Space Corps Directive #34124
No officer with false teeth should attempt oral sex in zero gravity

Apparently this is not what respectable young ladies should be wearing.
(Kitimariana, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 16:31, 10 replies)

Dealing with the Difficult Class. With Fish.
My housemate's godmother is an English teacher. (Friend of a friend, I know, but my housemate isn't the type to peddle urban legends...)

At the start of one academic year, the teaching allocations were distributed, and said godmother realised, to her horror, that she had a particularly notorious class to teach. They were a bottom-of-the-bottom-set English group, and had a reputation for acting up and wreaking havoc and misery upon anybody that tried to bring Shakespeare within pissing distance of them.

So, rather than worry for the fateful day, this teacher decided upon a pre-emptive strike. She already knew this group were going to be a bunch of revolting arseholes - try pressing ahead as normal and they'd walk all over her.

She bought a tin of tuna and a tin of cat food. Then, she stuck the label from the cat food onto the tuna can.

The class swaggered in and saw her apparently eating cat food from a tin with a fork. I'm told their expressions were initially mixed - some defiant, some confused. Eventually, a general sense of mild fear settled over them. That woman was just eating cat food...wasn't she? Erm...okay...

And although various of these little arseholes went on to cause mayhem in all their other classes, she apparently got through the year with minimal trouble from them.

Miaow...

EDIT: I have since been reminded of another tale relating to this woman. She apparently had a plan for the day when she received a set of coursework submissions that was so bowel-numbingly, arse-clenchingly, rectum-voidingly* bad that, quite honestly, to not even mark them would be an act of kindness.

No, on that day she was going to put them on the passenger seat of her car and drive to the coast. She was going to park as close as she could to the edge of a cliff, get out of the car and open all the doors, and then wait for a good gust of wind.

Perhaps fortunately for her students, this hypothetical stack of coursework never arrived - she was waiting for a particularly 'special' set, because, as she said, "It's the kind of the thing you could possibly get away with once in your career..."

*_{Yes, I know it's not a word...}
(LongJohnBaldry, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 16:23, Reply)

mr lau
im sure he once burned a hole in a chemistry lab desk. and there was the time he couldnt get some experiment to work outside (it was windy, lighter wouldnt work or something) - cue him wandering the corridor with a lit blowtorch.

also, he might have been intelligent, but he was unintelligable. took about fifteen attempts to understand him through his heavily chinesed accent.
(zenmeban thinks the weather could be better, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 16:15, Reply)

science!
i had 7 years of science (i did physics a level, what was i thinking) Condensed, it would have been the best hour of any geeks life.

a huge van de graaf generator, radioactive isotopes, sodium, magnesium, super magnets that i tried to steal, but when i was leaving the class my pocket leaped to the left and clanged onto the radiator.

and the creme de la creme, the illegal pickled foetus in a jar. That is until a boy in the year below smashed it.

I wasn't there, but my imagination demands that someone stepped in it and slipped.
( monstrinho do biscoito teeeshurts = www.nogunarmy.com, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 16:01, 3 replies)

Life at the Bullytorium
All this chilly weather reminds me of the less than halcyon days that I spent in my local bullytorium (to some people these are known as ‘schools’).

I used to absolutely dread any sort of snowy weather because I always used to get pelted with snowballs. I was always bullied because of my glasses, my funny orthodontically treated teeth, my spotty and less than athletic physique, and my propensity to always get 100% in any test that I took.

To conclude, I was a formative and established bully’s wet dream. Indeed I used to encourage even normal non-bullies into bullying traineeships due to my unfortunate physical attributes (perhaps ‘distributes’ would be a better antonym to 'attributes'?)

So as the sort of young scrote that could even make St. Peter bellow obscenities and chase me to try to empty me in a bin, I tended to try to avoid outside life during breaks etc. However, the ‘classholes’ in charge used to force kids outside during snowy weather so we could all play and enjoy the joys to end all joys, snow.

To cut to the chase, I was once pelted by about 8 other kids who had all rather ingeniously and thoughtfully placed medium sized rocks inside snowballs. It was all somewhat synchronised and they all hit my face within about a second of each other. My glasses were smashed, my nose was broken, and my mouth was a twisted ruptured chasm of wrecked teeth and steel and plastic. Oh, and one of my earlobes was fucked.

I was taken via ambulance to the local hospital and after a few weeks was on the mend. Of course no one had seen anything and the chaps that did it had admitted to their various form room teachers that they possibly weren’t even in school on that day due to various lifestyle choices and other miscellaneous factors. Everyone including the teachers was quite prepared to sweep it all under the carpet. Except my parents. And except me.

I sung like a canary to the police.

As I had also taken pictures of all my injuries, I had some very good evidence against the bastards that had done it to me. The school were reluctant, but were cajoled by the police and my dad’s legal action into expelling the kids.

I then went to another school, and had a great time.
(powervator and NONE SHALL PASS, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 15:59, 7 replies)

B3tards... The Next Generation

This is great!

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

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

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

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

"What are you doing?" Liz asked.

The reply:

"Looking at your knickers, Miss..."

Spec-fucking-tacular!!!
( SpankyHanky, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 15:59, 7 replies)

Not particularly funny but
at the ripe age of 27 I still regularly see/hang out with/get wasted with mates that I made on the first day of the first year of secondary school.

We've been through different things since then; all been off to different universities, been travelling to different places, all sorts and yet still, we are all back in Exeter, still having a blast, it's just that now we have more of a steady stream of debt income.

Also, I get more sex these days through not being a fat, long-haired metaller who (not intentionally) looked like meatloaf.

Still being mates with, and seeing these guys, is the best thing I took from school.
( Vipros. clever got me this far, then tricky got me in, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 15:16, 5 replies)

State Opening of Parliament
A pearoast from some time ago....

I went to an all-girls convent school which shared its sixth-form with the local all-boys school run by monks. One of my ‘A’ levels was Politics – taught at the boys’ school and I was the only girl in the class. Our very nice politics master (just out of the army and unbelievably cool – he took us to the pub on a school trip….) wanted us to watch the state opening of Parliament on TV. The only available television was one in the sixth form dorms…..and this being the middle of the school day he thought there was no problem taking half a dozen pupils up there…even if one was a girl….

So we all casually wander up to the dorm….me feeling a mixture of sheer terror and warm excitement, particularly as some of the upper sixth had just come back from playing rugby and were wandering about their dorm getting showered and changed – of course I averted my eyes and our teacher shouted at the top of his voice, “Dicks away gentlemen, lady in the corridor”.

Anyway, we went into this small room to watch the TV, I take a seat at the back. Unusually for most catholic boarding schools they had turned the heating on and the seats were very comfy.

For the first ten minutes or so I was fully conscious and even taking a bit of interest in the proceedings at Westminster, but the heat of the room soon got to be too much and I was asleep.

I’m not sure how much I missed but I came to as I felt a warm hand edging up under my skirt and pausing only when it reached the top of my stockings (compulsory uniform – honestly). My eyes were still closed and I allowed myself to enjoy the moment; hoping it was our teacher…..the fingers were now trailing along my stocking top towards my inner thigh…..I’m embarrassed to say but my legs naturally started to fall open and….

“Here’s Black Rod hammering against the door of the Commons demanding entry”

My eyes opened, the warm insistent hand withdrew and I found myself looking at the class geek…..
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 14:44, 7 replies)

Confessions of a geek
Yet another long time lurker and first time poster...

In retrospect I was woefully unprepared for secondary school. I suppose the first signs should have been when some kids in my junior school class started talking about the latest film on at the cinema (Gremlins? Ghostbusters? Something big in the 80's anyway) and I had absolutely no idea what they were on about. Cue the rest of the afternoon being grilled about what I had and hadn't seen, which turned out to be the square root of sweet fuck all. It wasn't that my parents expressly forbade me from watching them... it was just that that their way of bringing up children was very different from everyone elses. Meh.

Contrary to what popular culture and pr0n will teach you, going to an all girls school is not the place you believe it to be. It is instead a veritable nest of vitriol and bitchiness, especially if you're the sort of person who says in their first few weeks "New Kids on the Block? But they're crap!" That pretty much set th tone for the next five years, most of which I tried to escape by hiding in the IT rooms and learning RM Basic...

Changing schools at 16 though was a breath of fresh air. Now I found out that there were people who had the same interests as me, and they were called boys(!).

I was the only girl in the entire year to take Computing as an A Level, and that class provided me with some of the best times and friends I could ever have asked for. Highlights include:

- Our IT teacher Mr Read. 65 years old if he was a day, fondly nicknamed "The Bald Eagle". Ardent Fulham fan. Being a follower of the beautiful game myself, I procured some fanzine cartoons taking the piss out of Fulham, enlarged them on the photocopier and sellotaped them to the whiteboards, after Fulham had suffered a particularly humiliating defeat. As soon as he clapped eyes on them, he turned that shade of red most commonly known as "beetroot" and demanded to know who amongst the class had done it. No matter how many times the lads protested that I was the one, he simply could not believe that a girl could be the culprit, and I sat there smug whilst he ranted at everyone else.

- Mr Read again. His classroom was the end one in a line of three, with stairs coming in from one side. Students used to use them and it to cut through into the middle classroom, much to his eternal frustration, as he bellowed "This is not a corridor!" Us telling new first years that sure, it was fine to go through, probably didn't help matters...

- The whole class enjoyed a good game of Doom over lunch, when it was too cold for playing football. We hid the program on the network, which became a game of cat and mouse with (yet again) Mr Read, as he desperately tried to catch us at it. The IT room suffered a strange number of "power surges" those 2 years, that just happened to coincide with him entering the room unannounced. The mystery remains unexplained.

- Being bodily lifted up by one of my classmates, and tossed into the big wastepaper bin - you know, the big dumpster type ones. Explaining that was fun.

- Booting footballs onto the roof whilst doing impressions of Andy Cole (it was a while back...), then having to steal the caretakers' ladder to fetch them from the roof.

- Last day of 6th form, sitting outside watching the staff v pupil cricket match. Having a water fight, before realising that I was wearing lycra clothes, and that they were rapidly shrinking. One of my more practical friends ran off, and returned 5 minutes later with a pair of jeans for me to wear. Whose they were, he didn't say. Where they had come from was another matter he was strangely silent on. I spent the rest of the day looking for a bloke wandering around trouserless, but I never found him...
(Kitimariana, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 14:33, 5 replies)

Ben..
..my friend Ben was a little special. Intelligent enough, with a quick wit that belied his age, but lacking any sort of interest in school work or taking anything seriously at school at all. Talking to him you'd often find your mind drifting off as you wondered how much he was having a conversation with you and how much with himself. He was frequently in trouble for winding up teachers.

School uniform was enforced vigourously and we had many a talk about how we were to present ourselves outside school - to keep shirts tucked in and blazers on when going home for instance. The school was the sort of stuffy, fee-paying one that relies on its image and 500-year old reputation to cover up for its dinosaur attributes.

One Friday, for Comic Relief, we were allowed to come in wearing "home clothes". So there was the usual mix of happy kids in jeans and sneakers and not-so-happy kids caught up in the adolescent fashion wars that erupt on such occasions.

Ben belonged to neither of these groups. He didn't give a flying fuck. He turned up in the nastiest polyester school trousers, turned up above the ankles and sporting suspicious stains. These looked especially smart on top of white addidas socks and battered old skate shoes with ollie-holes in them. He had on a white school shirt, with a green vest underneath showing through. The shirt was two-buttons undone and splattered with what looked like blood. His blazer was turned inside out. To literally crown things off he wore his school tie round his head, rambo style.

Genius.
(raymond "three griddle pans" luxury yacht lovin' the christmas action, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 14:30, Reply)

Here lie my memories of school
Howayiz?

My Dad was a teacher. He gave it up when I was born as he couldn’t live on the money. It was the 70’s. It was Ireland. I ruined his life.

1 - Barrington bunny – Cowardice? Apathy? Laziness?

I must have been 10 years old or so. I was a, no, THE star pupil. Best marks, homework always done, way ahead in workbooks, I even had a half-decent reputation in the school yard as a result of helping bigger, stupider, sportier boys with their homework in return for not beating the shit out of me. I was capable, if not prodigious in PE (sports) class. I had the lead in the school play and was singing lead in the school choir and church on a Sunday.

Life was okay.

It had been remarked upon that I was spreading myself a little thin. My understudy in the school play had been filling in for me when I was running late due to particularly rigorous bouts of angelic boy soprano solos.

One day, whilst perched on a gym horse masquerading as a hilly mound, I was sweltering in a nylon rabbit outfit. I was Barrington Bunny. I have no idea what the story was about.

I just said, “Fair enough – let Gordon do it”.

The teachers were shocked.
My schoolmates were ambivalent.
I don’t remember how my parents reacted.
I don’t know how I felt.

I suspect it’s one of my abiding memories as I am a master at shirking responsibility.


2 - Jocking

Gym day was hell. If you had forgotten to wear shorts under your tracksuit bottoms and you got ‘jocked’, ie, someone wrenched them down when you weren’t looking, your ‘Scooby Doo’ or ‘The A-Team’ or worse, generic shop-bought underpants would be on display for the world.

Being poor sucked.

I once acquired a pair of sky blue Nike trainers made from some man-made material which eventually wore a hole in the toe. I had a pair of socks the exact same colour which if I wore then, you couldn’t see the hole in the trainer. If those socks were unavailable, it was back to the shop-bought ones.

Being poor sucked.

I had a cotton canary yellow ‘The A-Team’ tracksuit which I loved though.

That was ghey.

That’s about everything I remember from small school (ages 5-12).

Oh, I love you, Miss Sweeney.
Thanks for helping me with my ‘up’s and down’s’ on my first day of school.


Secondary school:

1 - Will you go out with me?

I think I have told this story before:

I went to a mixed school.
There were girls there.
This was my ruin.

A common practical joke was to tell a lunchbox-toting, parka-wearing geek that the object of his desires had reciprocated his longing only moments prior and was all set to receive his rampaging hormonal lust if only he were to approach her.

Once I fell for that one.

Cue baz tapping the prettiest girl in our year on the shoulder, parka hanging off one shoulder to all the more enable the lunchbox-toting arm and proposing before all and sundry that as was her express desire, we should go out with one another.

That was neither the first nor last time a girl told me to fuck off but it was certainly one of the most memorable.

Being mocked as you realise you have been deceived is one of life’s more cruel duets.


Fortunately we had a whole crew of parka and lunchbox heads and we all grew into long-haired rockers and metallers who wore big boots and black clothes a lot so the persecution didn’t last too long.

Humiliation though is another story.


2 - Poetry/facebook

She recently facebook-ed me this girl - the (most consistent) object of my teenage lust.

A woman I had barely spoken to whom I idolised as the most lovely, the most serene, an angel with a voice which spoke only in truths and wisdom.

We were studying the sonnet in English literature class.

I loved the form of the Shakespearian.

I wrote her poetry.

Flawless Shakespearian sonnets.

Ten of them.

In my best handwriting.

Bound in a folder with individual plastic sleeves I had scavenged from somewhere.

She received them via the next woman I plan to tell you about who relayed to me that the subject of my sonnets thought I was such a nice guy but just didn’t think of me ‘that’ way.

Devastation.

In her Facebook message she revealed she’s married and has recently had a baby.

Why contact me now though?

Maybe a year or so after the sonnet fiasco, she was my dance partner in a school production of Grease and wondered if I knew anyone who had kept a copy of the video. I said I’d look into it and joked about poetry.


3 - The debutantes ball.

The kind lady who conveyed my poetic entreaties had been a friend of mine since the beginning of secondary school (12-18) as her parents knew mine in their youth and she lived nearby so took the same bus.

We had common interests in music and film and black clothes, long hair and big boots and eventually alcohol and drugs as we remain friends (albeit tentative ones) to this day.

We were out one night in a bar that seemed to mistake long hair for valid proof of age getting locked on cider as usual when I took her to one side and with tears streaming down my face asked her to accompany me to the end of year ball as my lady partner with no added pressure to perform erotic feats whilst drunk at the end of the evening or otherwise and that maybe a dance or two would be nice but she didn’t have to hang out with me for the night or anything.

I was a confident youngster as you can see.

She said, “Yes”!

Naturally, I propositioned her on the night and oddly enough she also didn’t feel ‘that’ way about me either.

We drifted apart for a bit and then reconciled and drifted and reconciled. We’ve not spoken for a bit but it’s not out of rancour. We just don’t agree as much as we used to and don’t have that much in common anymore but I still care for her etc.


My best mates are the lads I went to school with. We chat often and email in a group every day talking the same shit we’ve been talking for 20 odd years now. It idles the day away.



This has been cathartic.

There’s a word I learned in school.

Not fucking ‘closure’,

Rafter
baz
(bazmorningstar efil4nat3b, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 14:25, Reply)

Last story
I could flesh this one out, but I don't think I have the skills for that so I'll keep it short. Sometime in my school career I ended up having a punch up with my best mate in the toilets because he kept pushing me while I was trying to have a wee.

It ended up with me being sent to the headmaster with a massive shiner and tears running down my cheek. When standing in his office he asked why the fight had started.

'Well sir, I was just standing at the urinal and he kept pushing me'
'I see. And then what happended?'
It was then that I uttered the immortal line, '...err and then I tried to piss on his leg sir'.

I got a shiner from my best mate that day, six of the best from the headmaster and a leg covered in my own piss.
(The Archduke of South London I'm in your Girlfriend eating her organs, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 14:24, 1 reply)

The odd kid.
I mentioned A and his oddities in my last post. I can't let it lie.

In addition to the rape alarm and the fear of women, there was his refusal to admit that he was Indian - he insisted that he was white, and a supporter of the BNP to boot. He smelled terrible. He had a strange high-pitched voice. He claimed to have no genitals of any sort. On those rare occasions when he took part in any sport, he'd wear his kit under his uniform, the better to avoid having to be even half-naked in public. After the lesson, he'd put his uniform straight back on over the top. This rule extended to swimming kit on the one occasion when he ventured into the pool. (No, of course he couldn't swim.)

He wanted to be a doctor, but said that he would refuse to treat women. (He never was accepted into medical school.)

He would spend his lunchtimes trying to give away the rancid sausages he had been given to eat. When noone took them, he'd just leave them in his locker, which gradually grew to contain Europe's largest stash of rotting offal.

Nobody liked him. Even the staff transparently disliked him and having to deal with him.

Oddest of all, he seems to have vanished completely. Put his name into Google, and nothing is returned - not even anyone on a blog or forum mentioning A, the odd kid from school. Not a whisper.

And this makes me wonder: did I perhaps imagine him? And, if so, how did I create such a monster? When I talk about him with friends now, are they humouring me? Or are my friends simply figments of my fevered mind as well?

I am afraid.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 14:19, 1 reply)

Burn baby Burn...
When my brother was about 11 his teacher flipped and sent the whole class down to the shops with money and instructions to buy themselves some sweets. Obviously 11 yr olds shouldn't be wandering the streets unsupervised, but this is what happens when teachers flip out. They all made it back and after scoffing the sweets she made them carry all their books and desks into the middle of the playground so "they could burn it".

One of the teachers inside spotted this and potential disaster was avoided. She convinced the now clearly deranged Mrs Henderson to move everything back inside which was duly done. Another teacher arrived and the class was told "Mrs Henderson has been sent home. She wasn't feeling very well". Yeah right, she lost the fucking plot more like it.
(The Archduke of South London I'm in your Girlfriend eating her organs, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 14:17, 1 reply)

The Funny...
In my youth, despite my small frame, my sense of personal pride would not allow me to back down from any fight. This would often result in a school-boy dust up with the odd would-be school bully, shocked at my ignorance of my perceived physical limitations (small and weedy).

On one such occasion, there was a young chap from the year below, who tried his luck with me in an effort to obtain the brownie points for beating up a lad in the year above. The inevitable scrap followed, shirts were pulled, names were called and head locks were traded until the bell went, at which point we went on our separate ways, the bell usually marking the end of hostilities.

As always, I thought no more of it, until word reached me in my math’s lesson that said lad was rounding up any able-bodied lad in his year, and I was in for a spot of trouble at the gates after school. My pride refuses to allow me to back down from even this, and I accept that tonight, I'm in for a kick-in.

The end of day bell rings, and I begin to walk towards the school gates, with all the excitement of a death row inmate walking towards ‘ol’ sparkey’. From behind I hear some shouting, and a young lad runs past me, barking at me to follow his lead and snarling like something feral as he leads our two-man charge into the gathered crowd (only about 8 of them bothered to show). Names were called, headlocks were traded, noses were broke, faces were kicked, and knuckles were grazed, with my unexpected ally and I standing triumphant as the other group retreated.

In their eagerness to obtain allies for the nights festivities, every able bodied lad in the year below was asked to join, including “Psycho Dave” who, as his name may suggest, had even more anger management issues than I. He had three much older brothers who he would fight with, and he was ‘nails’, and feared nothing, and nobody. Dave agreed readily to join in, but failed to mention which side he would be fighting on.

This would have been useful information, seeing as Psycho Dave’s Dad, happens to be my Dads elder brother. This made even more glaringly obvious when you realize that Psycho Dave and I, share the same surname.

How we laughed.
( BulldogUgly Visit my profile to see what's between my legs, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 14:16, Reply)

Proper Respect for the Dead
For those who'd opted for GCSE history, the annual ritual was a trip to Flanders. We'd pile into coaches, and for a few days wander around an autumnal Belgium.

Now, A was a little - um - strange. I could list his manifest oddities here, but I'd cause the internet to overflow. There were many. For the moment, suffice it to say that he had an intense fear of women, and carried a rape alarm just in case.

Part of the trip involved going to the Menin Gate at Ypres, where, every night, the local fire brigate plays the last post. We were expected to look solemn and not too cold during the ceremony.

We tried to keep our composure. Oh, how we tried. But it's not easy to stay serious when a small smelly boy drops his rape alarm exactly halfway through a two-minute silence and it goes off...
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 14:11, Reply)

Ah, the memories...
As is the norm in small towns, the 2 secondary schools (Longsands and Ernulf) hated each other with a passion - end of term fights were planned weeks in advance (and usually broken up within minutes - can anyone remember a fight in school that lasted longer than 3 minutes?)

And so there we were, fresh faced 1st years in a Humanities lesson. Steven MacArthur was being his usual class clown and messing about doing something when the teacher had enough and shouted:
"Steven! if you don't stop messing about, you'll be sent to a special school...and where's the nearest one?"
Without missing a beat, Steven piped up with "Ernulf sir."

And so it was that the entire class, teacher included, were helpless with laughter for a good few minutes.

Notable teachers:

Mr. Godbolt - Chemistry teacher. Him burning an entire roll of magnesium ribbon...lobbing huge lumps of sodium/potassium into water and having it explode and run around on the ceiling tiles.

I think anyone who went to Longsands in St Neots remembers him...

Mr. Donnelly - never had him for a class, but met him countless times in pubs and got rat-arsed.

Mr. Bond - old Maths teacher, if you did something wrong in his class you had to stand at the back of the room (one of those old mobile huts).
"You boy! go stand at the back on one leg...and count the snowflakes." was a memorable cry from him.

Forget the name of the English teacher I had before leaving, but some 4 months after I'd left, she rang my mum to say she was worried I'd not been in school. Mum just said "Of course not! he's working around his exams."

Mr. (Frank) Spooner - General teacher at age 9 or 10. At the time, he was an ogre, but now I realise he was a great teacher - I even went back to see him a couple of times.

They say school days are the best days of your life, but even better is having the majority of your teachers tell you that you'd never make anything out of your life, then end up WORKING at the school, teaching the teachers to use the computers. Meh.
( snee held his breath since, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 14:08, Reply)

Shakespeare porn and other strangeness
We had an English teacher whose "big idea" about Othello was that Desdemona wanted to "do it with a black man". Spittle formed at the corner of his mouth as he expounded on this. He's a published author now.

Then there was the septuagenarian physics teacher called Kaboobie who lived with his mum and bred tortoises (with his mum, who knows?).

The earnest bearded art teacher who told us that art was a process "like masturbation". Not mine, pal, mine's a picture of a house.

The kindly, otherworldly RE teacher who told a baying mob of 15-year-olds that she had lesbian tendencies.

The elderly Spanish teacher who spent a whole class with his old fella hanging out of his trousers. (He retired very shortly after that.)

The headmaster caught banging a parent in a stationery (though not stationary) cupboard.

The male PE teacher nicknamed "Molly" because he liked to "mollify" unruly pupils with a cricket bat. No, I don't think he knew what the word meant either.

The hapless, flat-chested economics teacher who was hiding behind her desk when the head of department burst into the Gaza-esque eruption of the classroom to ask where the hell our teacher was.

The kid who shagged a hoover.

The kid who got a cat to lick his boabie by smearing it with fish.

The girl who was given 100% in her French oral by our sweating, stinking troll of a teacher. I hope it was worth it.

My children are being taught by the interwebs. At least all the perverts, pederasts and weirdos are behind a screen.
( calgacus Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 14:06, 1 reply)

French Oral
Each year the boys’ school next door put on a Shakespearean production and girls in the VIth form could take part.

The year they decided to do A Midsummer Night’s Dream I was cast as Hippolyta – the Amazon Queen married to Theseus.

Our first rehearsal was held straight after rugby practice (for the lads, not us - we played hockey because premenstrual teenage girls can do more damage with a long wooden stick) and I was standing onstage with the other girls when the 1st xv swaggered in. One lad stood head and shoulders above the rest - at least 6'5" of muscle (and in true cliché form, he was from Brussels). He walked up to the stage, lazily looked each of us girls up and down, then without breaking eye contact, slowly removed his tracksuit bottoms to reveal perfect muscular thighs and very tight shorts. There wasn't a dry pair of knickers in the room.

He was Theseus.

Anyway many weeks of rehearsals culminated in the final week of performances for the public and on the night of the last show a cast party was held afterwards in the boys’ Sixth Form Common room – an old WW2 nissan hut in the extensive grounds of the school.

And as the boys’ school had very different rules and regulations to our school, the boys in the Sixth form were both allowed to smoke in their Common room and, it appeared, to drink too.


Halfway through the party I remembered that I had left a bottle of wine in the girls' “dressing room” - we had been given the use of an empty dorm up in the attic of the school.

I found Theseus, explained my problem and how I was scared of going up there on my own in the dark - I might get lost…..so he gallantly offered to take me…..


Outside it was pitch dark and away from the hut silent except for the sound of the sea and the wind gently lifting the leaves on the trees.

We found an unlocked back door began to make our way through the dark Victorian corridors. My stiletto heels tapped out a constant morsecode message on the flagstone floors which became a rapid fire SOS as we walked past the chapel. Theseus recognised my fear and took my damp sweaty hand in his cool muscular one. My breathing quickened and his grip tightened. We made our way up the stairs past the dormitories (including the Sixth form dorms where I had a previous encounter which I may post about...) and we carried on up to the attics.

Once there I started to search for the wine I had left, but Theseus had other ideas…..I was still wearing my costume – an Elizabethan dress with a tight fitting bodice which was constricting my breathing.

He turned me around and began to unlace my dress until it was loose enough to slip to the floor.

I stood there in the tiny dark attic room, almost naked and cold, the moonlight streaming in through the small leaded window. He ran a cool fingertip along my clavicle and down to the tip of my erect nipple,

"You're freezing, baise-moi" he whispered.

I grabbed my school sweater and skirt, pulled them on and shoved the wine into his hand. Hot tears of shame slid down my burning cheeks. He knew I fancied him and he guessed that my French would be crap. At least he waited until we were alone before he insulted me.

I pushed past him and made my way back to the party and never spoke to him again.



EPILOGUE
When I finally found out what he'd meant that night it was too late - he'd left school.
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 14:03, 3 replies)

Acid Isonitrile
Having survived the Great Thermit Demonstration I developed an interest in Chemistry-or should I say in things that went bang, produced horrible smells, or preferably both.

Much to my amazement I passed my O level, and in a fit of misplaced enthusiasm decided to make it one of my A level subjects.

Not such a good idea, far too many complex theoretical equations, not enough explosions. Organic chemistry was particularly tedious.The delights of synthesizing various white powders that could neither be smoked, snorted, or ignited soon began to pall. Until one fateful day when we were introduced to the delights of Isonitriles. Apparently their vile smell was legendary, and we were going to be allowed to make some!!!!!

Alas, with only one drop of each of the required reagents allowed the pungent smell was only transitory, and after sniffing-then retching-we had to add a drop of caustic soda to stop the reaction.

The following weeks class involved the synthesis of yet another boring substance, but some of us realised that we could subvert the apparatus and reagents and have a proper go at bulk production of this isonitrile stuff. All went to plan, the most difficult part being to keep the teacher from enquiring too closely what exactly was going on in a quiet and somewhat odiferous corner of the lab.

Success-by the end of the double lesson we had a tightly stoppered bottle containg about 150ml of the vile liquid. The smell actually defies description. Initially it's not too bad but it sort of builds up and gets worse and worse with layer upon layer of depth and pungency. Absolutely overpoweringly gut wrenchingly awful. The big question now was what should we do with the fruits of our misplaced labours?

We used to have school on Saturday mornings, and the organic chem. lesson was the last one, after which we could go home. There is a saying that the devil finds work for idle hands. Somehow a couple of us found ourselves whizzing along to the nearest large town on my ancient BSA motor cycle.

Somehow we found ourselves browsing the racks of LP's in the quite spacious branch of W.H.Smiths

Most unfortunately one of us had said bottle of isonitrile in his pocket and proceeded to empty it down the back of the record racks in the shop-which gave us about five minutes to get out before the smell started to permeate the premises.

Coming back down the street about half an hour later,we were confronted by an empty shop, as the staff and customers had all been evacuated. A couple of fire engines were parked outside, and apparently, fireman wearing breathing apparatus were inside the shop trying to locate the source of the smell.

Fortunately it never made the local paper, and in those days CCTV had yet to be invented. Even so, we didn't go anywhere near the place again for some considerable time....
(Snabblim Dropfritt, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 13:57, 1 reply)

I used to go to a public school called Terra Nova

from the age of 8 till 11, I would have been there longer but I was very politely asked to vacate the premises before I was forced to...

Anyway, the reason:

I was a little shit at school (which is why I went to so many I suppose), but one thing I did has just been reminded to me by another member of the board who shall remain nameless.

There isn't a long story to this and I'm finding it hard to bulk it out at all, so I'll just come out with it:

I pulled the 'V' sign on the annual school photo......

It must have cost hundreds of pounds to have the hundreds of prints (1985) altered so my little fingers sticking out of the side of my crossed arms 'blacked out' so you couldn't see them so obviously.

If anyone has the evidence then please post it, I only ever got to see it once before my parents came to pick me up.


They must be so proud!


(Kip, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 13:55, Reply)

Student Teacher
When I was at college doing my A Level English a student teacher came to take our class for a few lessons.

She was fat, arrogant and fairly stupid.

She would spend half of the lesson boasting about the fact she had passed university and obtained a degree (she must surely be a genius!)
The other half was spent informing us that whatever we said was wrong and whatever she said was right (though her theories on some things were extremely retarded.)

Obviously the class became irritated by this, so we decided to inform her that everything she was saying was a complete load of crap.
She seemed shocked by this and sat down.
On the teacher's desk.
Which broke under her immense weight.

I don't usually laugh at other people's expense but she deserved it, plus it was bloody hillarious!
( Mellicious is made of candy, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 13:53, 1 reply)