Barred from Maccy D's
Not for any of the usual reasons either. Again, I always liked bending the rules and being too clever for my own good, so this was too tempting an opportunity to pass up.

The aforementioned burger chain was running a Trivial Pursuit advertising campaign, giving away scratchcards with (fairly) tough questions on them. If you scratched off the correct answer (and only the correct answer) then you would have won a burger, some chips, a drink or one of the wholly fictitious big cash prizes.

First we collected discarded non-winning scratchcards until we had the whole set with the correct answers. Then, every morning we'd run in before school and grab, oh, let's say 2" thick of new scratchcards apiece and spend the day rubbing off the right answers. These were now a potent currency which could be traded for more or less anything at school.

Until the other boys got wind of it. Before long there was a queue at McDonalds before they opened in the mornings. The scratchcards flew out as fast as they could stock them and returned to their tills just as rapidly. Obviously we were completely taking the piss - we ate like kings at McDonalds for the whole duration of the promotion without spending a penny until the manager did the sensible thing and barred my entire school unless they carried money. Naturally this affronted us, as it meant we had to catch a bus to the next McDonalds along...until they cottoned on and we couldn't be bothered to go further afield.

The next time they ran the Trivial Pursuit promotion, it was covered in disclaimers like "Only one scratchcard to be issued at a time" and "Only one scratchcard to be redeemed at a time". I'd like to think I was responsible for that.
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Wed 4 Feb 2009, 10:18, 2 replies)

I am ‘little Johnny’…

There was one time…when I was 6 years old…and the teacher asked us if we could name a sentence that contained the word ‘Fascinate’

I immediately raised my hand up in the air.

Begrudgingly, the teacher acknowledged me. “Can you, Pooflake?”

“Yes Miss,” I enthusiastically replied, before continuing:

”My Auntie Nikki’s cardigan has ten buttons…but her tits are so big she can only fasten eight”

\coat.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Wed 4 Feb 2009, 9:02, 5 replies)

Tragic irony…
Has anybody noticed, that as we trawl through the posts about our school experiences, one constant becomes evermore painfully apparent?

The younger the B3tards, the lower the standard of grammar and punctuation?

We can argue until we’re blue in the mouth about the dropping standards of teaching, but nothing hammers the message home harder than a solid lump of text, peppered with ‘txt spk’, awful spelling and a total disregard for the proper usage of ‘There’, ‘They’re’, and ‘Their’.

I know I’m not perfect…’people in glass houses’ and all that…Still…

I weep for the future.
(Mr Twisty Cheeky The worst kept secret in B3ta..., Wed 4 Feb 2009, 8:55, 60 replies)

a northerner's tale??
I am not sure whether this tale is universal or just confined to the North UK.

The best fighter (ie knuckle dragging, bottom stream trog) in school was referred to as the "cock" of the school. Lesser fighters were ranked accordingly, thus one had the second cock, third cock etc.

Its not a term I have heard in recent years (I am not allowed to hang around playgrounds since the prohibition order) but I wonder what the new hip phrase is to describe "the cock of the school."


I am so old I still think "hip" is trendy
(bugboybeast, Wed 4 Feb 2009, 8:26, 7 replies)

True love
My lengthy journey to school on the bus meant I got to listen to plenty of gossip from the girls on board. One girl who shared my bus stop was fairly well-endowed up top and made no secret of her active sex life. I was a horny 13-year old myself but utterly terrified of girls, so I learned to zone out the background noise in order to eavesdrop on her mesmerizing, dependably filthy conversations.

One cold morning, wrapped in our winter uniforms, we boarded the bus as usual. She began her usual recitation of the previous night and her friends listened intently. I overheard her mentioning "true love" for her latest conquest. Stroking her school scarf, she warbled "He really loves me you know, this morning he told me he wanted me to have his smell around me all day..."

I assumed he'd bought her some perfume. The statement was clarified a moment later.

She removed the garment to reveal a still-fresh, glistening trail of cockslime which was liberally coating the inside of the scarf, much of it clinging determinedly to her neck. Her friends cooed in synchronised teenage admiration.

Charming girl really.
( chart cat has an itch, Wed 4 Feb 2009, 8:18, 2 replies)

Poor old Hoppy
We had this poor cunt Hoppy Holmes as a french teacher. He had a really gammy leg and walked with a very pronounced limp.On his Birthday me and my mate Dave gave him a box of the lollies that he constantly munched on - covered in vaginas that we'd dutifully cut out from Dave's stash of old stick books.

Hoppy's french class had been put into a prefabricated room while they were building. We pulled the steps about 2ft from the building. We knocked and ran into some bushes. Poor cunt. Hop, drag, hop, and he fell about 3ft down the hole, and nearly fucked his other leg.

heh - how's them pommes Hoppy?
( hismastersvice cunting flange-jammer, Wed 4 Feb 2009, 7:47, 3 replies)

The Jello Incident.
Alright, so, I didn't go to a normal high school. At all. This is one of many stories I have about this strange place, with names changed because I don't feel like getting yelled at.

I went straight from homeschooling into this weird dual credit program for math and science people where students live at a university and get credit for the first two years of undergrad and the last two years of high school.

Naturally, this program attracted the dregs of society; those smart enough to handle college work and socially distant enough to not mind leaving family and friends behind.

In a "school" of 400 nerdy, sociopathic outcasts who were locked up in a building together every night (11pm on weekdays, 1am on weekends), LAN parties were a major pastime.

A couple of my close friends, both named Paul, decided to suspend a GameCube in jello and play it during the party. They bought $42 worth of jello, got a laundry basket, built a cardboard and plastic wrap ventilation system for the gamecube and got to work.

It was winter and cold enough that they thought the almost two solid feet of jello would solidify in one night.

Not only did it not completely solidify, but it ate through the plastic wrap and destroyed the gamecube.

The Pauls (or Paul squared) decided that, with a broken gamecube and a laundry basket full of jello, the best course of action was to see if the jello fermented.

It did.

So, they left it in the closet for a month, let it ferment into some weird sort of jello wine *, and got completely shitfaced the night before an Honors Biology Test**. They also crawled around in the vents of the dorm for a while.

The larger Paul got kicked out for "bringing alcohol into the building," while the smaller Paul graduated with straight As and the love of the entire administration.

Life is weird sometimes.

* Their entire room smelled like feet.
** They both got As on the Biology test. So much hate.
(Mreek, Wed 4 Feb 2009, 5:43, Reply)

My school had no bully
I made sure of that by punching and kicking fear into every kid I met, just in case they were a potential bully.
( chart cat has an itch, Wed 4 Feb 2009, 5:06, 2 replies)

Fjord reminded me...
My religious instriction teacher was also decidedly uninterested in religious instruction, but got around the concept by introducing something he liked to call "comparative religious studies" where we tried a new religion every couple of weeks, with a trip to the appropriate place of worship to go with it.
As a consequence we actually learned a lot about all sorts of religions which has a) helped me understand the plight and motivations of others much better and b) helped me pretend to be everything from a Muslim to a Jew on various occasions.
The highlight was when we studied the Hare Krishnas and visited their HQ for a lecture and feast.
I've forgotten most of the names so will, as is my wont, insert gibberish, but I do remember the crucial word here, which I assure you is eactly as he said it.
The scene: Big hall, filled with 13-14 year olds sitting at tables. Head Hare is explaining how they are vegetarians and each dish is veggies prepared in a special way.
"This is Blahblah, which is deep fried okra, this is Blahblahblah which is a chick pea curry, this Blahblahblahblah which is cauliflower in a sauce.
"And for dessert there's SEMENOLA, you all know what that is. Dig in!"
I'm pretty sure he meant to say Semolina, but Semenola is what he uttered, leading to, as I'm sure you can imagine, absolute chaos.
Imagine silence as everyone peered at their little bowls of stuff that did look a lot liek what we were discovering comes out the end of ones winkie when touched in the right way. Then imagine a few giggles, then outright laughter, then silence again. Then some brave pervert stuck a finger in his bowl of manmilk and flicked it at a girl.
Now imagine screams, running, and semolina flying everywhere.
Good times... good times...
( difficultchild, Wed 4 Feb 2009, 4:18, Reply)

Ah school...
Our grade six class once memorably decided to turn en masse against a new teacher and refused to do anything she said.
No matter how much she instructed, then asked, then demanded, then pleaded, then begged, we did nothing for weeks on end.
No study, no art, no craft, no reading, no writing, no... you get the point.
Every time the headmaster arrived we'd all sit there quietly and do whatever he asked us... the moment he left, we'd fold up and go back to idle chatter, paper planes etc.
One kid even took to following her as she wrote on the board, wiping it all off seconds later. Another ate his maths text book, page by page, chewing it all up then swallowing it. Took him weeks but it was well worth it.
Eventually, predictably, she had a complete breakdown and left for the rest of the year.
Her replacement, obviously warned what a pack of utter bastards to expect, was no doubt perplexed to find us all sitting quietly waiting for instruction... which we followed.
The rest of the year went perfectly normally and we all passed into year seven with no problems, even David, who by now was eating books with mustard as a lunchtime trick.
As for the tortured teacher, she came back a year later and teaches pre-school now.
I know I should feel some kind of remorse, but really it was nothing personal, it was just one of those things kids get it in their heads to do.
( difficultchild, Wed 4 Feb 2009, 4:02, Reply)

Several decades ago I worked at an institution un-euphemistically called a 'hospital for the mentally subnormal'.
There were children living there as well as adults so we had a school.

Well, I say a 'school' - it wasn't exactly going to churn out any Oxbridge fodder, try hard though the frankly brilliant staff did.

One day some Important Visitors were coming. All the kids were rounded up and bathed specially and dressed in their best, even one particularly sweary boy.

He was well over 6' tall, well developed for 15, with hairy legs in his regulation school summer shorts and light stubble. His mental age was somewhere around 4: he could walk and talk, and especially repeat phrases, but not dress or wash himself.

Anyway, the Visitors came, and the teachers sweated in case Sweary Boy kicked off, ran away or got his willy out, or just swore, all of which he did a lot...

However, the visit went like a dream right up to the last minute, when it went like this:

Very Very Posh Visitor Lady: We've had a lovely time, children, but we're going now!
Sweary Boy: Well FUCK OFF then!
Staff, heads in hands: oh shiiit......
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Wed 4 Feb 2009, 3:22, 3 replies)

Not a fan of school
I went to a grammar school, so a certain level of behaviour was expected - in theory.

It was red nose day, and for our history lesson, our teacher said if we donated money to red nose day we would have no homework.

I theorised she had not prepared any homework in anticipation of everone paying up, so naturally I refused to pay.

I was right, and she got mightily pissed off that me, a mere teenager, had seen right through her.

At the end of the lesson, a sweet wrapper from my pocket or something fell to the floor.

She seized upon this (not literally) and demanded that i pay up or be forced to pick litter after school.
I refused, and as we walked out i muttered 'tramp'(she kept her money in her shoes, probably still does) to myself. I thought.

Next thing i know my head of year is screaming at me infront of loads of people. I was too surprised for any sort of reaction.

He marched me to a nearby window overlooking a litter-strewn playground. He opened the window, a breeze rolled in and I jizzed in my pants.
(papa bouba slap your face, Wed 4 Feb 2009, 2:17, Reply)

Google Images and Safesearch
Well it was me and my mate Dave again, unfortunately this time it was in IT. We didnt do work, we mucked around on the internet mainly playing the daft green helicopter game if I remember rightly. Anyway we were both at that age of wanking but being extremely immature, its only now even as engaged that I know we always remain that way. so what do we do LOOK FOR PORN. It restricted every porn website you can think of, all restricted. but one day i was fumbling around google images and found the safesearch feature, i duly changed to do not filter anything, and i typed in SEX and would you believe, sex before my eyes. I inform Dave then we set about the task of making a porn collage in word. I did about three, anyway its all fine for months. Then Dave left for pastures new. Again I was fine for a month or two until one day my teacher wanted to see what work I had done, Bugger all was the answer. I had two documents on my file. DOC 1 n some shit about IT. Doc 1 was the pornart collage. so let me describe the room long rectangular with all computers round the perimeter Im at the back, trust me. anyway my teachers marches up to see what I'done and her immortal words whilst i was trying to escape the room was 'What's this Doc 1' closely followed by the bellowing gasp of shock and every pupil flipping there head around at seeing my teacher in front of my computer starin at about a 100 different lesbins on Word then all eyes fixed on me.

I laugh now but fuck me was that painful, I wanted the world to swallow me up but don't despair for there was no punishment as I blamed it all on Dave.
(imnotnormalami, Wed 4 Feb 2009, 2:08, 5 replies)

So a little bit embarrasing...
I should't tell but I will.

Basically it was the day of school before parents evening (the worst nights of my life). Basically this involved all my teachers delightfully telling my mum what a wanker I was, thus home time and a few clips round the ear and so on. Anyway it was lunch when me and my mate Dave* decided to bunk off, it was a last minute thing and we had to discover the best tactic of sneaking out of school when everyone was gone. Anyway I needed the toilet only there wasn't any toilets only Scumpits. So off we went, we sneak off to the other playground round the sportshall and behind this really long and short wall. Anyway we had to squat down and be on the lookout. 15 minutes later i'm dying for a shit, I have to go. So I had to tell my mate to turn around I whip down my trousers have a shite, look in my bag for some A4 paper and I'm done. So we decide we have to move now coz I don't wanna get caught and being in trouble for having a shit behind a wall. So we start moving then just behind the gates theres the schoolfield and then Mrs Sainsburys class had just come on she sees us. THANK THE LORD i was quick, anyway we dart out of a broken fence and we both run different ways. Muggins here decides to run across around a Mile of field while my mate slips down the backway. So here I am running across the worst schoolfield in history, I run past the older schoollads playin football, Mr Twatface orders one of the lads to catch me. Oh Fuck im gonna get caught and there gonna know it was me who had a shit, No No No, well I'm caught up pretty fast but it was someone I knew he told me to bloody run as fast as I can and then i run and hide in this bush anyway I try find my way past this bush, when I see a garden and a pair of legs six feet away with a Fuckin Baseball bat, he calls for his dog, so I have to sprint all the way round whereever the hell I am, and run around the front of this guys house, I see him hitting the bush with his bat and run off in a direction which wasn't mine. Anyway I finally arrive home and mum doesnt Know anything yet, which is fine with me. Anyway I'm dreading school the rest of the afternoon/early evening we get there and nothing is said at all, all night. I've gotten away with it I thought then came along mrs Sainsburys, My head of Year I think oh fuck this is gonna be bad. but they just told my mum i was bunking. When I got home she shouted and stuff but was puzzled at why I had a little smirk on my face, i got a little slap for it but she doen't know to this day why??



Not so much funny as just plain eventful!
First post!



Names Changed
(imnotnormalami, Wed 4 Feb 2009, 1:55, 8 replies)

Now you see it....
But for a stones throw I would have been in God's county, but no - it was in Derbyshire that I went to school.
See, the Pennines are so good at making it miserable in the Lakes that when it rained in my youth, there was no such thing as 'spitting'. Nor was there a 'light shower'.
If it was coming down, it came down hard, as I recall at least.
My tale follows one such day, or week, or possibly several months, of non-stop soaking wet rain on biblical proportions. The end of term it was and all!

Well, at the end of term we were always allowed onto the playing field, see? But not now, no, the rain had put paid to that.
So there I am, wet to the bone with my 3 year old waterproof coat on, wellies and a now soggy packed lunch, looking at the edge of the playing field no more than 20 meters away from me and my mates as we arrive at school.

There were desks there.
Brand new, still coated in shrink wrapped plastic, perfectly dry and without scribblings or doodles of any sort.
But it was the ground they stood on that intrigued us.
Closer and closer we crept, till we reached a stack 5 high.
"Must have been left here till the teachers sort them out."
"Oh well, we're early, might as well grab a pew, eh?"

So all 6 of us, knowing full well what we were doing, climbed aboard with grins from ear to ear.
Slowly, the legs of the bottom table eased through the soft turf.
Slower, the legs of the second table sank in.
Then the fun stopped, the third set of legs too much for the ground to take.
We cry in unison, "Well fuck this." and move to a standing position, giggling like, well, school children.
"Ready? 3 - 2 - 1 - ...."

We jump.
The tables beneath us disappear into the ground, only the tops remain mockingly protruding from the surface.

Wide eyed, we run to the next stack, and another, till all the stacks are but stepping stones in the mud.


The letter to our parents, the head teachers office 'meeting', the lunch times and break times we lost.
It was, all of it, worth it to see the puzzled look of astonishment on an entire schools worth of teachers.
"They're where?"
"How in blazes do we get them out now?"
"I told you they'd sink, but would you listen?"

(We would have gotten away with it to if it wasn't for a meddling kid)
( Pointy Head poked another hole in my anorak on, Wed 4 Feb 2009, 0:36, 1 reply)

Campsite of doom
For I hope the best of reasons, my mother was misguided enough to send me to a small private school near Twickenham until I was 13.

The school was basically a factory to churn out decent results in the Common Entrance exam you'd take at 13 to go onto your next private / Public school (as others have explained, Public schools in the UK just mean private schools charging lots of money). To be fair, the school was good at what it did, but back in the 70s this would include the "physical" option - exercised in numerous devious and nasty ways - to force learning into pupil's heads.

Anyway, after the exams were finished with at 13, you got to go on camp. This meant staying in a large field at the back of the Head's country domain in Oxfordshire - private schools obviously making quite a bit of profit.

For a week the teachers who had drawn the short straw got to tend to the 30 or so boys - single sex school after 11 - who were finally free from the last 8 years of brutality and knew it.

The camp was towards the top of a small valley, and had its own spring, from which we drank before being sent by the teachers on "orienteering" every day - i.e. drop the little buggers 8 miles or so from the campsite with maps and compasses, and let them find their own way home unsupervised while the staff drown their sorrows.

But the spring must have been polluted by some chemicals from the neighbouring farms, because it made all of us sick. Literally sick, at night the food - sausages and beans - would be noisily regurgitated shortly after eating. We were all incredibly immature, in the way that only a single-sex "private" school can make you, so the mass outbreaks of vomit was more amusing than anything else.

On the last night of the camp, as a special treat, we were all allowed to watch TV in the Head's house, with his wife - the most fearsome teacher in the school - in charge whilst the other staff went to the local.

Revenge on the old bitch was sweet though, as that night our stomachs had obviously got accustomed to the nitrates, in that we no longer puked; instead we farted.

And here we had the better of Mrs White, as I shall name her, safe in the knowledge that she must either be dead or insane by now.

Being an upper crust wannabe - the ideal qualification for a private school maam - she had the same attitude to farting as was held by Queen Victoria to lesbianism. It was such a grotesque concept that it couldn't exist.

So, full of beans in all senses, the entire 6th form trumped their way through 3 hours of TV, gassing away like Saddam on the Kurds, every man jack of us pumping out more methane than a shed full of cattle.

And...that's it. It's why I read the rest of the QotW this week with a mixture of horror and envy. Back then the concepts of children having any "rights" were laughable. You were there to be educated and not to have fun and although you weren't thrashed enough to draw blood, the school was closer to the Victorian age than the freedoms enjoyed nowadays.

Christ, that was boring for you to read but cathartic for me to come out with. I hated school but ultimately it's just made the rest of my life better, just by it not being school.
( I_Was_Mordred, Wed 4 Feb 2009, 0:25, 2 replies)

My mate Chris
I joined my secondary school up North in the middle of year 8, And after the novelty of having a shiny southern accent had worn off I managed to merge quite effortlessly into a group of kids, not quite cool enough to be regarded uber-popular but not geeky enough to be socially outcast. (Think the in-betweeners for those that have seen it)

One person in the group was a mild mannered, highly likeable chap called Chris, he was one of these people who although highly intelligent had very little common sense and was highly gullible. As a result most of the piss takes were directed his way, and he took them, mainly because he quite frankly is. A legend.

However one day in Maths I think maybe I took it a bit far. It was towards the end of the term so it was a bit of a chilled out coursework catch up lesson which the teacher was all to happy to let us spend chatting while she did whatever teachers spend their time doing when pupils are working.

Chris had been relatively successful in his advances to a girl in the year below, securing himself a date to the local Pizza Hut the previous evening.

Now this is quite a big thing when your 14/15 and a girl across the class was eager to know more about the night. And asked in that inquisitive girly manner 'how things went'.

I still don't know why I did this but before Chris, who was a shy guy back in the day, could get his answer out. I nonchalently announced to the class that 'He couldn't get it up'

Chris went as red as a fanny with a thousand yeast infections as a few sneering laughs went round the classroom from those first set Maths kids who were humourously aware of my Euphemism.

The icing of the cake however was when the girl asked 'What I meant by that phrase' the teacher without looking up just boomed out 'He has erection problems' which caused the class to errupt in raucous laughter.

He did manage to inadvertedly get me back, even though totally by accident involving a really loud fart, a bucket chair and a perfectly executed accusing look in my direction, Which like a Rabbit in the headlights I was powerless to avoid. But I still think I had the upper hand.




Length, She never got to find out
(Peter O'Hanraha-hanrahan, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 23:46, Reply)

I believe the posh word for it is “plenary”
Our history teacher, Mr Roberts, was a young gun who came into the school with the idea that we would learn better if we talked a subject through rather than him just standing at the front and telling us what happened so that we could just regurgitate it in the exam. At the end of the lesson he’d stand at the front and ask us to call out what we’d learnt which then went up on the blackboard. At the end of a fortnight on the Hundred Years War he was only able to get four things out of the class:

• Did not last one hundred years
• Was not one war but really several periods of fighting
• Has a very stupid name
• Was between England and France (this does NOT mean it was in the Channel Islands)

Knowing that we were taking the mick and insistent that we wouldn’t get the better of him, he decided to brainstorm the stupid name thing. As a class we came up with the following suggestions:

• Done to make history harder to learn
• “The war between England and France” not specific enough
• Started off as One Year War, then Two Year War, and so on, then they lost count
• Was given the name Hundred Years War when it started, name just kind of stuck
• Tactic used by the English to damage French morale
• Sounds catchy

It is a credit to the teaching profession that all these years later I cannot remember anything more about the two weeks we spent on the Hundred Years War than that final five minute session.
( GarbageFan didn't know what to have as a board sig on, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 22:43, Reply)

My Teenage Cancer Scare

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

...in my bollocks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck...

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

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

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

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

"Spanky," she started.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But my mum perservered.

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

OH SHIT!!! NOW I REMEMBER!!!

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

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

FUCK!!! I very nearly shat myself.

My mum leaned closer.

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


EDIT: Check your balls, gentlemen...(or get someone else to do it for you, its much more fun).
( SpankyHanky, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 22:17, 5 replies)

Peggy...
... had a false leg. You wouldn't know it, he hid it really well.
One day his foot flew off during a lunchtime game of football.

Imagine peggy in the woodwork room, fake leg in a vice, while Odd-Job (technician) hammered is foot back on with a big fucking 6 inch nail.

Cue entry of 30 or so prospective first years.... fook did they look worried...
(Jimmydoodaa, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 22:08, Reply)

One or Two Things
(I) Religious Education

For RE, we had a young chaplain who, basically, didn't seem to actually worry about the education component, nor the religious element; in fact, it was a bit of a mystery exactly what he was teaching us.

However, he remains memorable to this day for choosing to believe that Priest was suitable viewing for a class full of fifteen-year old boys.

Not only this, but he gave it the following introduction:

"Yes, this film does feature Hamish Macbeth. But none of you ask me where his helmet is."

Shudder.

(II)

Later, having moved away from the lunacy of single-sex education, I was happily studying for my 'A' Levels when we were taken on a field trip to Wales to study the biology of the sea.

All well and good, you might think, but as we rocked up to the tiny Welsh hostel that was to be our home for five or so nights, there was the growing realisation that, yes, shared rooms would be involved.

This wouldn't have been a problem, had it not been for Gilbert.

Now, the boys' rooms were immediately split into demographics; The Cool Kids, and The Others. In an odd way, I'm now proud to be an 'other', but back then, it meant - trust me, this is bad - sharing a room with Gilbert, Ray, and another guy whose name escapes me.

Ray was, in fact, cast into our heathen wilderness simply because there was not enough room in the Cool Kids Room, but he bore it with remarkable dignity and grace. Or, more likely, he didn't really care.

Gilbert, however, was a walking chemical weapon. He had no social graces, no endearing qualities that spring to mind, and - crucially - no idea what the concept of hygiene entails.

When he hadn't washed for three days, the stench - in an enclosed area - was eye-watering.

But it was when he used a t-shirt to clean between his toes - one of the few t-shirts he had brought with him, hence, reek - was when Ray took umbrage.

Now, Gilbert also snored. Like a banshee. No, in fact, like a some sort of meta-banshee whose wail a banshee would hear before dying. Which meant that none of us had had more than the exhausted sleep you get when you run out of energy completely.

Which added to the strung-out atmosphere of our room.

Ray informed one of our teachers of this. She, naturally, thought he was joking, and that his fanatical zeal that she do something about Gilbert's personal hygiene - at the very least - was some sort of prank. But, in the end, she promised to have a wander into our room and make some mock-gestures about the smell, and gently suggest Gilbert do something about his aura of sewer.

She made it three steps into the door before she physically recoiled from the reek.

She suggested, in the strongest possible terms, that Gilbert enlighten himself of the functioning of the shower. Fortunately, he agreed to do so.

The worst was yet to come, however.

Gilbert, as has been said, had no idea of basic social graces. Such as the things it's polite not to do when you're sharing a room with three other men while they're trying to sleep.

Ray was lying awake on something like night four, most likely wondering if he could kill Gilbert in his sleep and get away with it.

But Gilbert wasn't sleeping.

Oh no.

Gilbert had decided that, having - we suspect - endured an abstinent three or four days, that a room full of exhausted fellow students was the perfect place for mutton musket practice.

The way Ray tells it - oh, thank god I had passed out from exhaustion that evening - he was lying there, contemplating his fate, when Gilbert, apparently having decided everyone else was asleep, conducted some gentleman's relief.

Ray could hear the sound of the thin, hostel duvet moving

up

and down.

Up,

and down.

And this left him in a quandary. Say nothing, and endure this masturbatory auditory onslaught, or say something and by chance cause his misfortune to cease - at the cost of his and (theoretically) Gilbert's embarassment. And what if he said something at Gilbert's moment of personal enlightenment? No, much better to lie back, wait for the wanking to stop, and then pretend it never happened.

This was such a momentous moment in Ray's life, however - a personal low of disgust he may never recover from - that he had to tell the Cool Kids in the next room, if only to beg that they let him sleep on their floor until the bus back to safety in a few days time.

But even if they wanted to, they couldn't - and, because they found it funny - wouldn't.

Which leaves us to the conclusion of this story, for Ray's torment was not complete yet.

For the other kids, in their wisdom, had found a soundtrack to Ray's problems.

And that soundtrack - to be played at any point when Ray was around from then on?

Oh, you should probably have guessed.
(Fjord, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 20:31, 1 reply)

Sitting at the back of the bus
I used to get the bus to school. Every day about 120 of us would pile on to a bus meant to hold at most 80 and we’d ride the 20 minutes or so to our treasured seat of learning. Luckily for me our year had been able to claim the back of the bus for our own, almost entirely through sheer force of numbers, and it was a great prize. This was back when I was young enough to want to sit at the back of the bus, rather than avoid it as I do now because it’s full of drug addicts and would-be muggers and whatever. Anyway, when we were in 4th year a stupid 1st year started coming up the back of the bus and talking to us for no good reason. He was a cocky kid and he had absolutely no reason to be, which meant that all of the blokes thought he was a dick and all of the girls thought he was cute. Why the girls even tolerated him I’ll never know, but my fifteen years of experience since has shown that being a cocky git with nothing to say doesn’t get the knock-backs from women that it should.

One afternoon the annoying midget makes his unjustified journey to the back of the bus, sits next to my best mate and starts talking to me.

“You see that girl down there, the one with the blonde hair? She fancies you.”

“Really?” says I, in my best passive- aggressive sod-off-without-actually-being-rude tone.

“Yes,” replies the little squirt, now starting to snigger at the comedic genius he is about to unveil. “Her name is Jo. Jo King.”

“Her?” I said, “Yeah, I know her. I’m friends with her brother NoSmo.”

At this point my mate starts snorting with laughter, nearly rupturing himself in the process I think, and the face of the little sod falls into a look I shall never forget. His face somehow conveyed in equal parts his confusion over me knowing a fictional character from his joke, anger that his brilliantly clever insult had somehow been turned back against him, and frustration over the fact that my mate is laughing at him and he doesn’t have a clue as to why. With nothing left to say the little so-and-so went towards the front of the bus and he never spoke to me again.

I can count on one hand the number of times my brain has been quick enough to come up with a response on the spot like that. Never before or since though has it given me such a warm glow of happiness inside and simultaneously had the benefit of getting such an irritating person out of my life for good.
( GarbageFan didn't know what to have as a board sig on, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 20:25, 2 replies)

monstrinho do biscoito reminds me...
There was a universally-hated maths teacher. Every lesson was made hell for her.

One day, she walked into class - not one in which I was a pupil - and announced that she'd appreciate better behaviour, because her husband had died suddenly over the weekend.

That was a mistake... 14-year-old boys can be bastards.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 20:20, 2 replies)

The legend of Alma
Every school has their share of eccentric teachers, one of ours was Dr. Al-Mudaris. A short Iranian man, looking and sounding like a cross between Sadaam Hussain and Luigi from the Mario games, Alma (as we called him) was ridiculously overqualified for his job. In fact, he frequently expressed his dislike of teaching at our school, and his wish that he was back at his old job at a chemical plant. He remained one of our favourite teachers, however, due to his many odd quirks.
Highlights include:

His coffee habit. He'd go through about four cups in half an hour. If we reminded him of the 'no food or drink in the lab' rule, he'd go and stand in the doorway, half-in, half-out of the room and sip his drink, looking pleased with himself. Halfway through the year he got fed up with going to the staff room for his coffee and kept a big bag of it in his drawer, which he would brew up at his desk using lab equipment.

The odd nicknames he had for people. Almost everyone was known as Boy, as in "Ahh boy, where's your coursework?" The single girl in the group was known as Leanne, despite that being nothing like her real name. My lab partner was known as Fire Hazard Boy, after he managed to accident set alight to some insulating material we were using. Another boy, Jamie, was constantly reffered to as Damien. One day Alma actually asked him "Is it Damien or Jamie, your name?" "It's Jamie." he answered. Alma seemed to quizically consider this for a moment before saying "I'll call you Damien anyway."

His many catchprases included "Shut it boy, I'm talking to the lady", "There is no black and white in chemistry, only gray" and "I want no Bucket Chemistry in this room boy!"
Whenever he saw me with my hands in my pockets he would call out "Take your hands out of your pockets boy, you're not in a park or cafe!" He finished an argument with a pupil by saying "Don't make me shoot you." At one point the adjoining prep room was requisitioned as a store room by the geography department, leading to Alma pacing around the lab grumbling about how they'd 'stolen his office' and calling on us to 'avenge him'.

One day he sat at his desk muttering "Ahh, Carol!" under his breath. When questioned about it, he insisted he didn't know anyone called Carol, and then outright denyed ever having said the name.

When I finally quit chemistry (due to being absolutely crap at science and not passing any of the exams) Alma made a point of encouraging me to come back whenever he saw me, despite my protests. Eventually he took to giving me odd jobs, such as sorting out the 'Chemistry Library' (a collection of mismatched textbooks) and designing a pamphlet for his wife's business (a job for which he actually paid me £2.50) just to get me back with the rest of the class.

One day I was hurrying to my next lesson, when he stepped out of the lab and called "Ahh boy, can you do me a favour? I need to get something, you watch this class for me." When I pointed out that I was already late for my lesson, he assured me he'd sort it out with the other teacher and then scurried off, leaving me to oversee his lesson for a full five minutes before he returned.

It's been years since I left school, so I've no idea if he's still there or not, but he livened up a dull subject for me and many others, and his eccentricities will live on in memory. Arkan Al-Mudaris, I salute you, sir.
(Uncle Comrade, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 20:03, 1 reply)

Charity
The words 'fancy dress' have struck a terror into me since, at the age of four, I was dressed as a pirate, made to attend the party of a child who I could barely stand, and then forced to stand outside my house whilst my mother tried to find out who had the spare key. Three hours in a hooped t-shirt, woman's scarf and biro beard, sitting on a concrete step whilst everyone in a three mile radius is knocked up to come and look at you, is enough to give anyone an aversion to fancy dress. But enough of pre-school.

Several more regrettable costume-based incidents occurred at primary school: wearing green tights and an adult’s green t-shirt to be Peter Pan – this also involved a song and a dance; being Father Christmas in a school play and doing a handstand when I forgot my lines – that one, sadly is on video; wearing long-johns every night for a week in another school play; and balloon pants, waistcoat and a fez playing a genie in yet another. However, I reached my peak, or nadir, at secondary school (when I should perhaps have known better). As I attended an overly-liberal comprehensive, there was no uniform. Consequently, when Comic Relief/Children in Need rolled around a non-uniform day was impossible. We were therefore expected to pay our quids and wear fancy dress. Highlights included:

• Nazi – I was dared (possibly even double-dared with a cherry on top) to come in dressed as Hitler. I’m tall, rotund and ginger, so the verisimilitude was always going to be slight, but that didn’t stop me. Cue pseudo-fatigues, an armband constructed from paper and, the piece de resistance, the trademark ‘tache, a load of dog hair glued to some cardboard and blutacked to my lip). I lost the tache when we discovered at break time I looked more like Goebbels. As a sidenote, I was bollocked for my outfit by the deputy-head of Humanities, which led to me becoming Jewish* - ‘I’m Jewish and I’m not offended, so how can you be?’, a winning argument you’ll agree.

• Suicide Bomber – Partly a dare, partly my own idea, this was basically black clothing with a balaclava and geligmite explosives (jelly in some ice cube bags). I ate the jelly at break time, so when we were photographed in fourth period I looked like a gimp...


• ‘A Gay’ – this wasn’t my idea either (do you get the feeling I’m weak-willed?). Basically a satin shirt and skinny jeans, with makeup. I looked a prat and was scorned by most, but the fact remains that the hottest girls in school were doing my makeup – I spent three hours that day inches from A1 boobs, and I’d do it again damn it!

• Princess Leia – Sadly, this was all my own doing. Bought a dress, borrowed a wig from a friend’s mum, found a replica blaster and, yes, wore make-up. I looked classy, was treated badly and ended up face-down in a paddling pool I was later told someone had pissed in.


I’ve seen, in my long periods of lurking, the phrase ‘pictures or it didn’t happen’. There are pictures of most of these, but luckily they come from the pre-digital age. Nonetheless, here is my shame...




The worrying thing is, I look a lot like my cousin.

* AF632 is not, nor has he at any time, been Jewish, despite many representations to the contrary. This does not constitute a slur on the Jewish people or their affiliates, and should not be construed as such. The filthy, big-nosed bastards.
( af632 now has an alibi for, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 19:59, 2 replies)

Joe 90
Physics A level, I was crap. Scraped an E (do behave!). Van Der Graaf Generator being demonstrated by The Colonel. All cranked up, ready to go when the lab technician, lovingly named Joe 90 for obvious reasons, wandered past and leant forward to give The Colonel a message.....

A very large blue spark flew to the middle of his forehead, his hair went out on end and he flew back, head first, into the blackboard.

Cue 20 Lower VIth formers pissing themselves very loudly.

Length? Eight inches from scalp to generator!
( The Lone Groover has mal des nuts., Tue 3 Feb 2009, 19:56, 1 reply)

My mate C.
Now I'm sure I've mentioned him before. He of the "Fence post up the bumhole" incident that still makes me wince to this day. He was an unlucky lad much of the time, and moreso than anything else, his nemesis was dog turds.

He sat next to me in registration almost the entire first four years of school, and on one occasion, he brought with him the unholy stench of fresh dogs egg, which it turned out he had whipped into an ommlette under the table. It was everywhere! All up his legs, the table legs, his school bag, how he had managed not to notice stepping in such a vast pile of shite is something we'll never know. He was kept back to clean it up himself, it took him almost an hour.

This tale in itself is amusing, but when in conjunction with what happened shortly afterwards, it gives a glimpse into his eternal, almost epic struggle against canine crap.

Our school, bless it, has recently been knocked down and replaced with a massive, soul-less monstrosity of a building. Our old school was built either side of a road, with a large orange plastice tube running between the buildings, presumably to stop some of the more highly strung pupils from damaging passing cars with their entrails. The old building (which is still standing, it's a listed building) was built on a slope, and upon leaving the rear exit there were two flights of stairs to go down. If you were a nancy, that is, us streetwise lads knew only twats used the stairs, and jumped and slid down the slopes of the little hills. It was here that my mate met his waterloo. For halfway down one of these hills, at lunchtime, he again crossed swords with a freshly laid poodle poo, and slid over on top of it. He skidded all the way to the bottom of the hill and when he rose, the chuckles at seeing him fall over were replaced with roars of laughter as we saw the huge brown stripe which ran from his shoe to his hair.

It was, to this day, one of the funniest things ever. He was COVERED in it. I can't remember what happened to him, I don't think I stopped crying with laughter for about a fortnight afterwards.
( baw__bag contains traces of nuts on, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 19:56, Reply)

I was a tender child.
I think the term "Hypochondriac" might have been made especially for little me. The fact was I hated, really REALLY HATED school from the ages of about ten to around twelve, and would basically make myself ill to avoid going in. In my first year of high school, I recall I had.....

A headache. For a month. One continuous headache that never ceased unless, and I think it was this that might have given it away, it was the weekend.

Not to be outdone, I started becoming sick every single saturday for about six weeks in a row. This one I didn't make up, every saturday around 5, I would get pains in my stomach, by evening I was vomiting, but by sunday night I'd (frustratingly) feel better. Every week for five or six weeks. Eventually, my mum kept me off one monday even though I felt OK. It never happened again.

I convinced myself I had rabies. One of the symptoms (as told in the daily record, that highest of medical journals) was said to be "restlessness". Which, unfortunately, is also a symptom of a maths test. Half a day in the sick room sobbing into the pillow. When the logical part of my brain would ask how I had contracted it, the answer was glaringly obvious. Spiders.

Fainting. Especially when receiving jabs. Blood test? *faints* BCG? *faints* Biology film of an operation? *clunk* goes my head on the floor.

I toughened up when I hit third year and discovered girls.
( baw__bag contains traces of nuts on, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 19:41, 4 replies)

Shit first or Gore? Oh... I'll give you the Gore....

In primary school you were told never to swing on your chair. This is why.

"Rachel, stop swinging on your chair!"
"Rachel, stop swinging on your chair, you might hurt yourself."
"I won’t tell you again, Rachel!!"

She didn’t have to. Rachel lost control on a back-swing and fell, glancing her head off the wooden desk behind in such a way that she partially scalped herself.

Not over yet.

Swinging forward, in a mad, shocked attempt to compensate and right herself again, little Rachel slumped forward and smashed off all her front teeth on the desk in front of her.

Head wounds really *bleed*, it was like an abattoir, gore and hair and glistening, naked head-membrane as she howled and gurgled blood between the shattered stumps of her teeth.

It wasn’t funny in the slightest.
(HaHa!Snakes! was last seen on, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 19:05, 1 reply)

Freak bites back with atomic toilet
I could begin by trying to describe what it feels like to be very, very badly bullied.

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

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

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

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

Can you fly without your broomstick, Goth?
FREEEAAK!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I got my coat.

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

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

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

It was apocalyptic.

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

WhuuMMMmMMMMMMMMMMMMppppHffffffffffffffffffffffffffissssssssssssss

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

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

I felt much, much better.
(HaHa!Snakes! was last seen on, Tue 3 Feb 2009, 19:00, 6 replies)