Mr Field in Physics
Or, to give him his officially school-endorsed name*, Pervy Field. Also sometimes known as "that creepy guy who teaches physics who is blatantly a sex-offender".

Picture him: brown slacks, a cheap polyester short-sleeve checked shirt that's been turned a dirty beige over the years, grey zombie-like skin,and Bill Gates's glasses circa 1987. A stereotypical physics teacher, some might say.

His voice was a dull monotone as he wearily explained for the umpteenth time in his life the laws of gravity to a group of bored brats. He disliked us, teaching, and the school. We thought he got no joy in life whatsoever, apart from his interest in astronomy (he had a telescope set up in his classroom). He was far too boring to get any joy from this world. Well, that's what we thought.

Until the day someone, who had been in the physics block for an extra-curricular society, happened to walk past his classroom at about 9pm. Who saw, through the window in the door, that Mr Field was still in his room, and was apparently engrossed in studying the night sky through his telescope.

Except the telescope wasn't pointed at the sky. Rather, it was directed straight at the windows of the building opposite. The girls boarding house. My boarding house. The girls who never bothered to close their windows, because they thought no-one would ever seen in. The girls who used to wear only the slightest knickers and little t-shirts to bed. The girls who, in the depth of winter, had to resort to cuddling each other in bed, chafing each other's legs and languidly massaging in moisturizer, just to keep warm...**

Mr Field was reported, and subtle enquiries were made as to whether he'd *ahem* gone any further to making his secret passions know. A girl in my house, who did A-level physics with him, confessed he'd sent her a valentine's card. In which he declared he'd just love to "lie down naked whilst she walked over his body wearing nothing but golf cleats".

Part perv, part Patrick Moore, all legend.





*Ok, not endorsed by the school. Well, not the teachers. Ok, not all the teachers.

**Yes, I made that bit up. Artistic license, y'see. Hehe.
(The Empress it seems you CAN polish a turd!, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 15:19, Reply)

how times have changed
when I was 11, our class teacher used to smoke a pipe in class. To be fair, he was 61 at the time and had been in the RAF during the war as the guy that pushed paratroopers out of planes over Germany.

Also, my chemistry teacher when I was about 14 used to tell the class about her dirty weekends with her husband at some hotel somewhere
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 15:18, Reply)

Humiliated Teacher - pearoast...
While at Secondary School (boys only – no preteen schoolgirls in this story, I’m afraid), our class was made up almost exclusively of useless, scheming fuckwits; we used to regularly reduce our poor teachers to gibbering misery, such was the misdirected vitriol of our classroom-based antics.

The worst this ever got was when a French student-teacher was working with us for a few months during the second year of our GCSEs. We treated her abominably – quite possibly because she was quite pretty and we got a bizarre, quasi-sexual schoolboy thrill out of regularly torturing her.

On one occasion, we were in class, laughing, shouting and generally behaving like depraved idiots, while she shouted at us to be quiet and waved her hands in the air. Suddenly, she stopped shouting – her face paling visibly and her hands rushing down to cup her crotch…

She was peeing herself - uncontrollably - right in front of us. As the news spread around the class, we were all still and silent, watching with a mixture of horror and guilt as the poor, pretty French girl wet her pants in front of 30 gape-mouthed boys. The moment seemed to last forever, but looking back it was probably a matter of seconds before she stood and half-ran / half-waddled out of the classroom, a trickle of urine leaving a thin, glistening trail as she left…
(Brett Starbuck, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 15:16, Reply)

Mr Jowitt
...was our chemistry teacher. He was universally loathed due to his petty little-Hitler outlook and, lacking the respect necessary to keep a roomful of teenage boys under control, generally spent a lot of the time shouting and threatening his pupils. Long before I'd started at the school somebody had started a rumour he was gay, with little if any justification, but it had stuck.

Anyway.

One day we were being treated to his long-winded sermon on the dangers of handling some chemical or other. In fact, he had a small vial of the stuff between his thumb and forefinger, and was waving it back and forth while ranting about how careful we needed to be when working with the stuff. And then he dropped it.

It was a joy to watch his flailing arms and panicked expression as he watched the vial fall and then smash on the floor. Even more so when people began to cough theatrically -- at first just a few, then everyone was going at it like Bob Fleming, hamming it up for all we were worth.

He shooed us quickly from the lab, and while he returned to clean up the spill we all buggered off for the remainder of the two-period session.

Win!
( reallywittyname veraciously conspues lexiphanicism on, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 15:15, Reply)

Made a teacher cry...woops!
Twas back in the days of Year 7, we'd just started at our secondary school, and were embarking on our weekly class music lessons.

This was before I took up an instrument and turned into the musical genius I am today, so the Hobbitesque Teacher's talk of 'Timbre', 'Tonics', and 'Texture' meant precisely fuck all to my 12 year old mind.

So to relieve the boredom I may have uttered 'Don't answer any of his questions, pass it on' to the people on either side of me.

And so it happened, for two consecutive lessons, only the teacher's pet answered anything. If the teacher picked on people, they would give an intentionally wrong answer or 'I dunno'.

Teacher's pet told on us, and teacher started crying. Massive investigation, and through a lack of evidence and no one being prepared to dob me in I managed to get off scot-free.

Hmmm, apologies for lack of interest/rambling mess.
(Freeman999, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 15:15, Reply)

kackking
the joyous act of having ones underpants removed by force in an upwards motion. The joy of being held down by the 1st 15 pack whilst the guy who id just beaten 6 times in a row on mortal combat carried out such a procedure, on a bus on the m1, on the way back from a rugby match agains some school in birmingham!
oh how i laughed!
(actually looking back it was probably quite funny foe everyone else involved, i know i have laughed my ass of whilst drunkenly doing similar to slightly more drunken friends - who says private schools arent good for you)
(pogo_it, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 15:12, 2 replies)

RSwipe & Vipros reminded me
Home Ec yet again and Burton said he was making fishcakes.

Yep.

Fairy cakes with a fucking tin of tuna in the mix.

We also had a teacher who if we played up would say, "Boy! Go stand in the bin because you're rubbish."
You would then have to stand in the bin whilst facing the corner for the rest of the lesson.
(oneinthepink is at your cervix m'lady, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 15:09, 1 reply)

Rawr!
It was clear that B had dropped a tab just before biology when, mid-lesson, he stood up and left, explaining politely that the teacher, Mrs F, had just turned into a lion, and he wasn't willing to be taught by a lion.

Instead, he went to one of the lawns and spent the rest of the afternoon talking to the daisies.

My favourite detail of this is that noone batted an eyelid - even the staff took it in their stride, on the grounds that there was generally no accounting for him. Moreover, since it was such a nice day, his decision to stay on the lawn was entirely reasonable.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 15:08, 4 replies)

Look at that S Car Go
On the same school trip to France,

We woke up on the first day to a chilly, damp Normandy morning.

We stumbled into our clothes and, bleary eyed like only surly teenagers can be, we stumbled one by one out of the front door into the short, open air bit that led to were breakfast was to be served only to be greeted by the sight of dozens and dozens of snails (no, not to eat).

They were on the walls, the window ledges, the grass, and, of course, covering the path between our door and the one opposite that was to be our destination.

Now...you may think you know where this is going. You may think...teenage boys...snails...this is obvious...

Well, you'd only be half right.

We were actually quite a nice bunch of boys and girls. The bastard ones hadn't been allowed on the trip.

The downside to this was that only a handful of my friends were there, the rest of the kids were the horribly enthusiastic, swotty ones who were on almost permanently on the verge of ejaculation because they were going to get to see the Bayeux sodding Tapestry that day.

Included among these was Andrew.

Who, while we were staring in awe at the sheer number of snails, came bounding down the corridor behind us, bright eyed and bushy tailed and oh so keen to learn...learn...LEARN...

He run past us and, crunch, crunch, crunch, crunched his way down the path, slowing down and stopping half way as he realised something wasn't right.

And then he looked at the carnage he had created. 10? 12? 15? crushed snails leading a path to where he stood.

He looked at us.

We were still a bit stunned and hadn't started laughing.

His lips trembled...his eyes welled up...

We still hadn't started laughing

He whimpered 'but...but...but...I'm a vegetarian!' and the tears fell like a waterfall.

And then we started laughing.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 15:04, Reply)

more disturbing than funny
i went to a school which i believe has made me into the well rounded individual that i am today (no i dont mean fat) *coughs*

firstly the biggest scandal at our school involves one of the teachers. nobody ever listened in his class, even the shy folk would piss about. anyways, he used to film our school musicals every year and sell them on to parents and pupils as a keepsake, if u will. one time one of the kids asked for a copy of one of the shows only to get home and find it was gay porn. no word of a lie! not long after he was up in court for luring a 12 year old into his flat. He doesnt work there anymore.

ooo what else?? one of the teachers had a relationship with a 16 year old but he was only suspended as she was over the age of consent.

on our last day of school we left road kill in the common room and generally attempted to trash the place with eggs, boot polish, jam u name it, before subsequently being sent home early. The look on my headmasters face as he ran after me was a treat i assure u.


school generally sucked i had more fun getting into trouble.
(fernbrittonsexcessskin will give a shit later, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 14:59, 6 replies)

Swimming
Probably my most memorable event at school happened during a swimming lesson. Our secondary school (now alas none existent)was lucky enough to have its own onsite swimming pool allowing for regular and much enjoyed swimming lessons. These were the days before my phenominal pie intake when i could still go to the pool without Greenpeace turning up to transport me back to the open oceans.

Now we had one lad in our class who shall be known as JN to protect the guilty. JN was, at that point, on the periphery of the cool kids without being completely accepted. He bought the usual sports wear and expensive trainers and claimed to be able to break dance in an attempt to fit in but never quite made it. His doom was to be sealed one swimming lesson after dinner.

We had been herded into the changing rooms ignoring the pervading smell of old unwashed football socks and teenage bodies and had begun to change into our speedos. JN had sat very quietly on the slatted bench seats through all the usual larking about. He hadn't even tried to curry favour and participate in Lyndons "prick of the week" contest. He had just got his trolleys off and was about to pull his trunks on when with a panicked look on his face his bowels released and a turd of mammoth proportions squeezed its way out of his colon, passed through the bench and landed on the cold tiles with an audible splat.

There was a brief look of amazement on everyones faces before gales of laughter erupted around the room with cries of "JNS shit himself!" Everyone stampeded out to escape the unholy smell and to alert the teacher.

The odd thing is that throughout it all JN just sat there with a forlorn broken look on his face making no attempt to get his shit splattered body into the toilet or to clean himself up in any way. The caretaker was called ( the look of absolute contempt and disgust on his face as he tried to clear up the mess was a picture on its own)and JN was excused swimming much to the relief of the rest of us who didn't fancy a floating Richard making an appearance in the deep end.

Now aside from no one wanting to go near him again in the changing room that should have been the end of it. However JN proved that lightning could strike in the same place twice. During a particularly long and dull science lesson the class clowns had tried to liven up things (setting light to gas taps anyone?) and this had put the teacher, King Rollo in an understandably sour mood. This wasn't helped when some of the cool people on JN's table had been using the excuse of going to the toilet to suck on some B&H. They had been taking it in turns and kids turning up back from the toilets stinking of fags was the last straw for our good teacher.

When JN (who didn't smoke) put his hand up he banned anyone else from going to the toilet. Again JN made no attempt to move from his seat. He just sat there, changing colour, looking more and more uncomfortable before the inevitable yellow stream running under the desk made his life unbearable again
(andythepieman Is surfing the waves of indifference on, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 14:57, 1 reply)

Oooh another one
I found this one funny, as well as quite irritating.

I guess I was probably in year 10.

Having been playing football on the field in abut 30 degree C heat I was desperate for a drink. Thankfully I had takena bottle of water to school with me, so promptly took it out when I got to Science class and took a swig.

Our teacher, usually a very laid back kinda guy suddenly said "Dan! I'm sorry to do this, but I'm going to have to send you out for drinking at your desk"

I was in shock, I actually laughed and said "You are joking right?" But he was dead serious. I was being sent to 'Referral'* for stopping myself from dehydrating.

The best part of all this? I was one of the 1st kids in the class and people were still coming in at the time, so it's not even as though I'd interrupted the lesson.

A couple of months later it pretty much became government policy to encourage kids to take water to school and drink throughout lessons, when they realised that a hydrated brain was a healthy brain.

*Referral was basically a room for little chavs to spend the lesson copying out of a book, which was probably more suited to a 4 yeard old. It also meant having to take a sheet into lessons for the next 3 days so the teacher could mark how good you'd been.
(porkinator is a Rock n Roll nerd!, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 14:57, 2 replies)

Rswipe reminds me
Back when Home ec was called this, and not "Food Technology" we used to have to cook things, usually pizza for some reason.

One particular lesson my friend Ian had decided to cook himself a cheese pudding.

This went swimmingly, the pudding rose triumphantly and was a glory to behold. As he was tidying things away I heard an "oh, I forgot to add something"

Turning around I saw Ian holding aloft a block of cheese....
( Vipros. clever got me this far, then tricky got me in, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 14:54, Reply)

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

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

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

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

*THUMP*

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

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

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

I was in the shit now.

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

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

I shook his hand and left.
(FoxyBadger (try saying it backwards), Thu 29 Jan 2009, 14:51, 17 replies)

Advance apologies for lack of funnies...
...I know the question specifies funnies, but fuck it, it's still damn sight closer to being on-topic than a lot of other posts will be.

It was the dawn of the 90s- the first full calendar decade I would exist for- and I was seeing out the final years of my primary school career at a nondescript Aberdeen school.

The day in question was a Friday, and as is Aberdeen's wont, it was a particularly cold and wet Friday. But a Friday all the same! Come the bell at the end of the day I was all a quiver- two whole days of sleeping late, watching cartoons, trying to teach the dog to skateboard and ignoring my maths homework until bedtime on Sunday night.

One of my friends had been held back for a bit of a talking to by the teacher so I waited outside at the gates for. I was idly minding my own business when *BANG* I was struck by something. I took a second to compose myself before searching for the source of the blow.

I did not need to look far.

On the ground in front of me was a small girl. She had ran straight out of the gates and straight into me. And promptly fallen into the biggest mud puddle I have ever seen, and I've had my share of sodden Glastonbury's. Then came the crying. My lord, that girl could wail. Pensioners that have lived through the blitz would have fled to their coal cellars in terror.

The girl picked herself off the ground and it became very apparent that she was head to toe in mud. I doubt she could have been covered in more mud had she dived onto mud pool and done the 500m breaststroke in it. It was only as she began to wipe the mud from her face- still bawling- that I recognised her as the younger sister of on my of classmates, Josh.

At this point my attention is distracted by some shouting from down the road. Ah, it's her father- a well known businessman in our community. He seems to be awfully angry about something, thinks I...

The exchange is still vivid in my memory.

Father: You boy, you!

Dick: *puzzled silence*

Father: What's you're name, boy?

Dick: *whimpers* D..D..D..Dick

"Dick what?" he thundered in return.

"Dick North".

"Well, Dick North" he sneered. "I just saw you push my daughter into that muddy puddle. I should punch your lights out..."

I think I may have wee myself at this point.

"..you should thank your lucky stars that I'm not going to". And with that he stormed off, muddy daughter in tow.

Now that really ruined my weekend. I was terrified that he would contact my parents and that I would get grounded and have to pay for the cleaning bills out of my pocket money. It didn't matter that I didn't actually do it. I mean, he was an adult so surely they would believe him over me? I was so terrified of the trouble I would be in that I didn't breath a word of it to my parents. I was terrified of going back to school on Monday as well. Surely Josh would want to beat me up for what had happened to his sister? What if I saw their Father again? Maybe he would have changed his mind about punching my lights out...

As it was, none of these things happened. What did happen was that about a week later I went around to my friend Daniel's house, where we wrote a song about how much of a big poopyhead Josh's dad was. We sang it with much gusto, backed by the tinny bleeping of one of the demo songs on Daniel's Casio keyboard. And recorded it on a blank cassette. And put it an envelope addressed to Josh's dad. And posted it.
(I Was a Teenage Spaceship, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 14:50, 1 reply)

Mr "Roper" Reed
Mr Reed was our chemistry teacher; a more intelligent, good natured and dedicated teacher you couldn't hope to meet. His understanding of the subject was second only to his capacity to pass his copious knowledge onto his students.

If only he could ever find students willing to listen to him.

You see, Dr. Reed, nicknamed Roper due to his very, very slight resemblance to Mr. Roper from the 70's American sitcom Three's Company, was every bit the stereotypical bespectacled, Mr. Bean-voiced nerd, and that drew all attention away from his efforts to teach.

The back of his lab coat was decorated with a spattering of blue ink from a past pen flicking incident. The ceilings of his lab would receive regular blasts of water, shot skyward from Bunsen burners hooked up to the wrong taps, while the benches that adorned the rear of the room were scarred by deep black marks where fire had been applied directly to the open gas taps on countless occasions.

He was frequently subject to having a long, drawn out "Rooooooooopeeeeeeeeeeeeeeer" blasted in his direction as he wandered the school corridors. This would be done in a voice that combined all the worst elements of the aforementioned Bean, Sloth from The Goonies and the Honey Monster; a voice that was particularly easy for a post-pubescent boy to bellow at the very limits of his lung capacity.

Can you imagine the voice? Try it; it's gravelly, loud and filled with scorn.

Now, imagine a class of about 20 pupils; all sat with mock attention spread across their bored faces. They're all boys of about 15 years old, and if you look closely at the middle row, one boy is whispering to another. You can't hear his words, so I'll tell you them. He's saying:

"Open your mouth really wide for a minute. Go on, it's nothing dodgy, just open your mouth as wide as you can..."

The other boy is looking confused now, but he's in the middle of class, the boy next to him is a good mate and definitely not a bummer or anything, so he obliges and opens his mouth wide enough to consume a football.

Quick as a flash the first child looks downwards and virtually melts into his chair, before unleashing as long and loud a "Rooooooooooooooooooooooooopeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeer" as his lungs will allow.

The gullible second boy remains faithfully & stupidly still. His mouth stays wide open and his eyes remain fixed on the shocked and rather furious teacher at the front of the class.

It was at least five minutes until the laughter subsided enough for the boy to be ejected from the class, his protests that he was naught but a simple stooge in an otherwise elaborate and unlikely set up, falling on ears still deaf from the assault he seemed so guilty of.
( Moey, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 14:46, 1 reply)

I remember school

( Colonel Dracula Two manky hookers and a racist dwarf, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 14:45, Reply)

and evie herself
home economics, third year. cheesecake was the dish of the day.

"are you making chocolate or lemon?" i asked evie. she opened her bag.

"can't remember." she fished around. pulled out two lemons. and a lump of gouda.

"lemon," she said happily, oblivious to the fact that the rest of the class were staring at her.

GOUDA. to make a CHEESECAKE.

oh dear.
( rachelswipe with a fork, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 14:43, 2 replies)

Snow!
Everyone knows that the magic snow can cause even the most sensible adult to slip into a childlike state and do silly things with it.

So when it snows heavily in the morning on a school day and has covered the school playing field in about 8 inches of the white stuff (Snow you dirty bastards!) by lunchtime, you would think the teachers would have the sense to tell all the kids to go home.

But no, not at my school.

Going back a few years now we had this little scenario whilst I was in sixth form, so was able to watch the following events unfold from the warmth and comfort of the common room.

A bunch of the younger kids (year 9 or 10) decided it would be a great idea to roll a HUGE fucking snowball, and by this I mean it was at least 7 foot high, twice the size of the midgets pushing it.

It was very impressive. I was in awe at these kids' determination, but couldn't help noticing that they were pushing it ever closer to the English block. "Probably can't see where they're going" I foolishly thought.

Clearly they'd had a plan from the start and they used their combined strength to heave this monster right up against the only doors of the English block (except fire escapes). "Genius!" I exclaimed loudly.

The funniest part of all was that there were teachers in there, presumably marking work or watching over lunchtime detentions, as well as kids who had sought shelter from the cold.

After about 10 minutes the headmaster marched across the field, from another part of the school and demanded they moved it.

Of course they couldn't exactly pull it, and they couldn't get around it to push it, so after some deliberation the kids decided it needed to be smashed apart...

Cue tens of kids running over to join in, dropkicking and elbow dropping the snowball until finally it had been defeated.

That made my lunchtime.

Length? More like height and width, both about 7 foot.
(porkinator is a Rock n Roll nerd!, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 14:41, 1 reply)

swipe - 1, latin - 0
i was always in trouble for something at school. nothing major, just detentions for wearing makeup (forbidden), jewellery (forbidden), kickers shoes (red and green labels forbidden), not doing homework and skiving lessons (ok, understandable). my real nemesis was the head of latin, an evil little virago called mrs bitch. i was one of 4 people dumb enough to be doing latin a-level, and mrs bitch hated me more than any of them. it was entirely mutual. we hated each other.

one day, she interrupted my halting catullus and ordered me sharply to take off my makeup. i decided to make a stand.

"mrs bitch," i said pleadingly, "i'm 18 years old. i can vote, i can drive, i can get married, i can drink, but i can't wear mascara on my own eyelashes?"

mrs bitch drew herself up to her full height (four feet ten inches) and hissed: "get to the toilets and scrub your face. and if i catch you wearing makeup again, my girl, you'll be suspended for a week." which, in the case of my shit-hot on straight As parents, would have been instant death.

so the next morning, doing hair, rolling over skirt etc, i thought about my timetable. double history with the divine (and also clearly gay) love of my life, then a break, then double mrs bitch. so if i put the makeup on for history, i could wash it off in the break. sorted. i promptly covered myself in slap and drove off to school.

by coincidence, i was sitting next to my best friend viv in assembly, which never normally happened because we were in different classes on different sides of the school. i was about 137 miles away from the sermon, fantasising about something or other, when viv nudged me. "what is mrs bitch doing there?" she hissed. i looked up. SHIT. mrs bitch was glowering at me from the top of the 6th form entrance to the hall, clearly having clocked the tonnes of makeup on my face. "and over there..." viv nodded, and gradually we realised that there was a senior member of staff at every single entrance. fuck. i was fucked. and not in a good way.

a plan had to be formed quickly. so as we stood up to leave, i whipped off the 6th form blazer and tie, shot forwards with the 4th years, blended in, and disappeared down the fire exit under the stage. probably the last time i did any running, but i ran over the other side of the school before anyone could shout "swipe!", arriving for history very flushed and very early. i had also collected my friend evie (eees nice!), who had been skiving assembly to do her homework. the pair of us were covered in makeup.

about half an hour later, three of the class were still missing. they turned up 45 mins later, glittery eyed, pink cheeked, and furious. apparently the teachers had been stopping all members of the 6th form and inspecting their faces for makeup. anyone wearing it was made to line up in the hall, whilst the staff marched up and down, giving out detentions, and ordering people to scrub their faces. those with acne were humiliatingly "allowed" tinted moisturiser. when they explained this, the gorgeous (gay) history teacher turned and stared at me and evie.

"make up?" he asked slowly. we blinked back through the 17 layers of mascara that we thought was subtle. he eyed the pair of us for a moment, then shrugged and carried on. the second the bell rang, i was in the toilets scrubbing away with toilet paper like a sumo wrestler's arsewiper.

and by the latin lesson at 11am, i was clean as a baby's bum, and three times as smug.

ok, it's long, and ok, you really had to be there, but this remains my greatest triumph to date, so you should pity me!
( rachelswipe with a fork, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 14:39, 5 replies)

At my high school like most we had a library.
Which was run by a very anrgy lady. Who wouldn't take any nonsense from anyone. One day on a break I went to the Llibray, only to find some kid had put a
sign over the door with the word "Auschwitz" written on it.
( BindiBaji, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 14:36, 2 replies)

First post, probably first of many...... here goes.........
Right, amongst the many years of my life, which I ultimately wasted at some of the finest schools in the worst borough in the country, there are two significant eventsa which stick in ones mind:

1) The day I realised that the Noble prize for Any Kind of Scientific discipline would be beyond me....... being asked to enter your science lesson by your teacher, who at the time had just arrived from a fag a caffiene break to UNLOCK the classroom, only to find that magically some student, or students had used the only essential skills they knew to break in via the fire escape, and turn on and light every single bunsen burner tap in the class room. Watching the panic sink in was something of a joy, but not being able to do anything in Science that involved heating things until I changed school, was not.

2) By the time my 3rd or 4th year had rolled on, I was sadly in the position whereby I pretty much knew these were not life long friends, and school for all of it's efforts, was not the arena i would best thrive in, thus when asked if I could use my significant Mary J habit to procure a class mate some supplies, I was all to happy to oblige. I ultimately bought what he asked, but smoked it that evening with some other non-life long friends, and arrived home wondering what I could use for a substitute. Dried Basil, was the best I could find, I knew he wouldn't tell the difference as he lacked a "frame of reference". The result was that he asked another classmate (who by this time was in on it) to roll for him using A5 PAPER. A5! A f*cking 5! the result I was lead to beleive was nothing short of a digusting nausiating, lung burning abortion of a spliff. Sadly I too that Lunch time got wasted and told a few other people, by the next day, the nameless individual had been christened Baz. Too this day I feel so pruod and yet ashamed of the event, but damn did we laugh. A f*cking 5!
(Randyqueen Hangin' out the back of Lady Boys, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 14:33, Reply)

Maths teacher
Our maths teacher, Mr Turnbull, was a bit odd. He used to shave in the cupboard, and he once locked my friend Ruth and I into his classroom at lunchtime when we were having extra tuition. Would have been weirder if he had been in the room too.

My parents still talk of the parent/teacher evening in which he asked them whose parents they were, then proceeded to talk entirely in numbers. Apparently I was '7.3 and 10 although sometimes 9 but mainly 8 to 11, careful she doesn't go below 50'. They maintain that this is why they didn't know I was failing maths for the whole of that year.
( ascorbate, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 14:30, Reply)

Quarantined
My primary school was lucky enough to have a swimming pool for the infants to be introduced to swimming at an early age (a bloody good plan if you ask me!). In reality it was little more than a large pond with a roof and a hefty dose of chlorine.

I still remember it being closed for what seemed like forever (I was only about 5 at the time)because one boy, who we'll call B, decided to take an almighty shit in the pool during his swimming lesson.

Naturally B doesn't like to be reminded of his submarine colonic evacuation. Naturally I like to mention it at every opportunity.
( SubCulture Hero ... ... He... .... Comes ... ...., Thu 29 Jan 2009, 14:28, Reply)

Young Enterprise?
Our secondary school had an attached 6th form..
Which i attended.. in Lower 6th (y12) you had to pick an extra activity to you As levels..
i (god knows why) chose Young Enterprise, where you must make and run a company for a year.. my company (i was MD.. so MY company) had the least ruley people the school had ever seen in it..
Anyway in the first week we decided we would make Tie dye clothing.. and to get some awareness... we would do a Catwalk.. now with the only 2 females in the group being very shy.. it was a male model only catwalk..
in the school gym.. me and 4 of my friends. strutting up and down.. infront of teachers and 10-18 yr old children.. the grand finale.. was just tie dyed boxer shorts.. its all on film.. the staff were not amused by that..
especially as the comentator had a passion for swearing..
i cant believe that over 100 people paid to see me and 4 friends dance around in dresses.
ok maybe i should go see that psychiatrist now..
(Fluffylegend, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 14:24, Reply)

The Birth Of Eric
In 1987 my year and the year above were taken on a school trip to France.

The year above contained the then woman of my dreams, the wonderful, glamorous, mature and oh so sophisticated Jackie L.

I crushed on Jackie L.

Hard.

And Jackie L. knew it.

And so, it came to pass, that in a tatty hostel near Normandy, in a dirty swimming pool, your hero was arsing about with friends and behaving generally like the just turned 13 year old twat that he was when the love of his life walked up casually in her swimming costume and lithely climbed down the steps into the pool.

She swam, she climbed out the other end of the pool, dripping wet.

I was transfixed. I was stone cold still, my eyes glued to the object of my affection.

Until she saw me staring.

And unleashed a torrent of abuse on me that basically, among other things, convinced me that I was a fucking little creep.

And I fled. I clambered out of the pool and fled as fast as my pasty white teenage legs would carry me.

Which was not fast enough to prevent everyone from seeing the boner that had created a proud tent in my swim shorts.

It was certainly not fast enough to prevent Jackie L. screaming, loudly, 'you've got an erection, you little pervert'.

I was humiliated, I was in tears of shame. I was devastated*.

And that, my dear friends, is how I became known as "Eric".

And remain so to this day among a certain circle of friends.




*Mind you, I still wanked like a german that night. After all, I'd seen Jackie L. in her swimsuit.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 14:22, 1 reply)

Dog days
You know how most people can remember the day a dog ran into the classroom at their school? The way the dog would run in, scamper around the place knocking jotters onto the floor, being ineffectually chased by the teacher, before exiting, stage left?

Well that happened pretty much every single day at my primary school. Doors were always left open for some reason (particularly lovely in the depths of winter in rural Scotland). And most days, a large ginger and white spaniel type would run in, and come straight to my desk. Whereupon I'd pat him on the head, say 'Good boy Hector', and he would run back outside to where mum was waiting for him with the other dogs, as she was out walking them. Once he ran in and vomited at Maria's feet. He was a wonderful dog.
( ascorbate, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 14:19, Reply)

Not me but a mate...
Was on a school trip and ended up staying in a University halls of residence (incidentally the same uni where I met my mate).

As young teenagers do when their away from their parents they started drinking, and quickly got ratted.

The school 'bigger-boy' (read bully twat) was going through the boys in the room one by one and saying "Tell me a joke", and if the joke wasnt good enough to make him laugh, he got a punch. So far, so boring.

Until he got to a boy called Pies (dunno why) who had palsy and crutches and said "Make me laugh or I'll hit you"

Pies responded by picking up an empty tube of bog roll and exclaiming "Alongst my travels I came across a long cylindrical object which enabled me to view the Isle of Wight froma great distance! (holds tube up to his eye) The Isle of Wight is calm!"

The whole room erupted into laughter, so dickhead bully-boy responded by picking up Pies crutches and chucking them out the window. At this point everyone turned slightly on the bully but he was unmoving and refused to go and collect the crutches and forbid the others from getting them for poor Pies, forcing him to limp out and get them himself. The bully was cracking up by this point and called everyone over to the window to watch Pies slowly collect his crutches. Pies had noticed this and turned, holding his crutches like the aluminum trophys they were before shouting "I SHALL HAVE THE LAST LAUGH! HA HAAA!!" turning on his heel (probably with difficulty) and cackling away into the night.

Reading back, it was funnier in the pub.
(Formaly Over say's hello, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 14:12, 2 replies)

Embarrassed 2
When I was at school I got a cinexin (http://images.google.co.uk/images?source=ig&hl=en&rlz=&q=cinexin&lr=&um=1&ie=UTF-8&sa=X&oi=image_result_group&resnum=4&ct=title) for my birthday. I and my 10+ girl friends (nun's school) decided that it would be a good idea to try it at my home, at my brother's room, in the dark. We soon got inventive and decided that it'd be a lot better to use it without any film on it, then it would only project light, and we will stand in the light doing as if we were actresses. I don't know how it moved forward. We were maybe 10 or 12, maybe younger. All what I know is that suddenly we were "recording" ponr films, getting each other naked and kissing here and there.

I don't think any of us is lesbian. We didn't have any alcohol to drink. And we don't talk about it. Ever.
(Aberracion Life's getting very complicated, but a lot of fun., Thu 29 Jan 2009, 14:12, 6 replies)