Bully almost dismembered......
In Brief...... Hardest kid in our year was Graham Dimelow.
The kind of kid who would punch you hard as he walked past just......because he would.

Anyway.

Metalwork lesson: Don't know if children are still allowed to do such things but lathes, milling machines etc. are in full swing, being operated by poorly supervised 14 year olds. Somebody is using a lathe with a bar of metal in it about 4 feet long. this means that part of the ragged ended metal (about 18" perhaps) is through the headstock of the lathe and spinning around quite quickly.

In these circumstances, standard practice is to put a piece of brightly coloured rag on the end to warn passers-by. No brightly coloured rag has been placed on the end......

It is about 1975 and school jumpers are made of indestructable man made stuff like nylon or other equally hard-wearing sweaty stuff.

People examine floor or ceiling as Graham Dimelow comes walking through the room......
People look up as the blood curdling screaming starts. He's walked past the spinning bar and the sharp spinning end has engaged in the "weave" of his jumper.

Lathes do not stop under such circumstances but continue slowly in their task. the front of the jumper is twisted into a thick, rope like sausage and, as the material is twisted up, Graham's waist is gradually reduced to ever smaller proportions.
The noise changes from a sort of suprised grunt, to a Arrrrrrrggggh, to a EEEEeeeeeee as, all air is squeezed out and organs are moved about.

Credit to the kid on the lathe, he stops it before death occurs and as people do in the seconds after something like this we all proceed to loudly exclaim "Fuckin' Ellllllll" and do errrrr......nothing.

Hero of the moment is Mr. Beckett, the "Hard Man" metalwork teacher who dashes over, takes one look, runs to the wall and returns with a large hacksaw. The twisted part of the jumper is sawn through and returns to normal size. Graham falls to the floor, gasping for breath.

Nobody Laughs.

After a short interval, Graham recovers and gets to his feet, the hole in his jumper went from waist to neck and armpit to armpit.
Mr Beckett went outside for a smoke.

Years later, it still makes me cringe, five more seconds would have resulted in a kid being literally squeezed in half before our very eyes.

Length? about 4 feet.
Diameter? About 12" round the waist.

Ian.
( Unklian Lives in the only country where "Glass" is a verb., Fri 30 Jan 2009, 9:39, 1 reply)

School times
School times were good. I wouldn't say the best time of my life (now is the best time of my life!!) but they were pretty good.

I liked school. I didn't need to make any effort to remember things. My memory is far too good (it gave me a lot of troubles and disappointments until I realized that not everybody could remember as I did) and just needed to listen at the teacher to be in the top of the class.

There were a few things that I didn't like too much though. The weekly mass and the weekly rosary could be very boring, but as I was the leader of the "chorus" and played the guitar, I would find the way to entertain myself.

As part of the extra-scholar activities, you could join a group called "Foc" (fire in Catalan). This is a "Mary followers (??)" group. Of course, I was part of it since I was 6 (chispita = little sparkle) and went through chispa (=sparkle), llama (=flame) and brasa (=ember). Now, we were split in little groups depending on your range, and the brasa was the leader of the group. We sang a lot of Christian songs, then pray (singing more), then meet with our little groups to discuss the topic of the week and then sing again. It was fun, more or less.

So it comes to me being a brasa and having my little group of chispitas, and everything was good.

Until one day. In one of the weekly masses, I didn't have the Holy Communion. I didn't feel like it, you know. But then, the nun in charge of Foc came to talk to me after the mass:
Hermana Juana María: You didn't have your Holy Communion
Me: I know, I wasn't ready for it today.
HJM: Weren't you? You know there is a priest there, in case you need confession.
Me: That's my business. I'll confess when I have to.
HJM: If you don't have the Holy Communion you're setting a bad example of being a brasa.
Me: Really? Then I don't want to be a brasa anymore.

At this point, her face changed, turning red, and started to shout at me:

HJM: You know who is talking from you, don't you? You know!!! It's the devil inside you who is talking!! He's so happy you're saying that, behaving like this!!!

Then my face changed, turned into surprise:

Me: I quit

And I did. The Church has lost a lot of power over me. I still believe in God, but these nuns made me think too much about how things are in the Catholic Church, and I don't like it.

Not too funny, I know. It sounds better when I tell it in Spanish and don't need constant translation. Sorry.
(Aberracion Life's getting very complicated, but a lot of fun., Fri 30 Jan 2009, 9:32, 3 replies)

Ah good, good cancerous days
On a school trip we went to some outdoor pursuits place (Boreatton Park or summat) and spent a week there. Never mind that my mum came along as she was a teacher at my school, I managed to avoid her mostly. However, what we really came for was the fire.

Each little camp had a proper stone ring fire, and we were expected to find wood and keep the fire going. This was quite cool really and we were diligent for at least the first day. After that it got a bit boring really so we decided one night to raid some of the supplies in the supply sheds. One night, round the back of some building we found an old shed, and we forced the door open. Inside - bingo - hundreds of sheets of chipboard. We spent and hour moving tons of the stuff to round the back of our campsite. Out of sight of everyone we spent an hour or two jumping up and down on the boards to break them up into smaller pieces. It must have been pretty old because it was very dusty.

We built a huge fire, but the stuff wouldnt burn. We threw on lighterfluid, more wood, firelighters, athsma inhalers, deodorant and got a decent fire going but this stuff wouldnt burn very well and the dust was pissing us off.

We tried for hours and gave up in the wee small hours.

We were woken loudly by Mr Jones the PE teacher demanding just what the fuck had happened last night. Some other other teachers came over and they all stood round the carnage of our fireplace, hands covering their mouths in shock. We were surprised as to how much trouble we appeared to be in.

We were taken to the teachers buildings and sat down. There we were given a nice lecture all about asbestos. It didnt click for a while exactly why they were telling us this stuff.

So I guess we're fucked?
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 9:29, 3 replies)

Bang!
First post so be gentle :)

Bit of a chemistry theme here I'm afraid. School. 1977. A-level Chemistry. Me - Swotty McGoody-Goody. Experimenting with sodium in water - produces hydrogen in a fun, fizzy way. But what happens when you put sodium into hydrochloric acid? The answer was - violent fizz, duck below desk level and BANG! Glass & chemical cocktail everywhere. Nice :D

Find the metallic element in a variety of compounds using standard tests. One salt I found contained either iron or nickel (I found out later this was all I needed to determine). Mixed salt with magnesium powder & saltpetre, in a tube over a hot bunsen burner. BOOM! A claggy mass stuck to the ceiling, glass embedded in the bench top with a bit of rusty-coloured residue. Iron!

Chemistry club (told you I was swotty). Made an organic compound alluringly called 3-nitrobenzene 1-2 dicarboxylic acid. A major component of the smell of vomit apparently. Painted on 6th form head's door handle. Return from summer hols to a carpeting - he couldn't get the smell off for 3 weeks LOLZ!

Chem club again. Made picric acid - a highly unstable substance used in detonators & has to be kept under water. In a sealed bottle. Last I heard it had to be disposed of by the army as it was deemed to dangerous to risk opening the bottle in case some got caught in the lid & friction set it off.

Oh, happy days :D

Apolologies for length but not the explosions.
(Mister_E_Meat was caught sniffing bike saddles at, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 7:25, 1 reply)

In my day.
I went to a grammar school in Newcastle because for some god-knows-what reason I was supposedly intelligent enough to win a scholarship. Well, who was I to argue? Unfortunately for some pupils there, money spoke louder than brains. Although the school had a fairly strenuous entrance exam, there was no doubt that for some of the rich kids, the wheels had been greased ever slightly. With huge fucking wodges of cash. Thus stupidity perpetuates itself etc...

I had 2 major disadvantages: 1, I didn't go to the junior school (which is where the little Quentins and Theodores and so on went prior to the main school, presumably to have their chins removed). 2, when someone asked me "so what does your Daddy do?" and I answered honestly "fuck all at the moment - he's been made redundant." it became fairly obvious I wasn't one of Northumbria's landed gentry.

Soo, considering my surname as well (let's suffice it to say that it's....bad. And I've heard ALL the jokes) I learnt to fight at an early age. I didn't enjoy it, and still don't, but I was at least able to hit someone hard enought that they didn't just laugh at me. One day in year 9 I'd had about enough, when one chinless wonder called Veevers (still can't remember his first name, but by his facial appearance, it may have been Shergar) had basically spent the day tormenting me about my parents.

"Carrot, your family are poor. They can't even afford you a proper school blazer. My daddy bought me two and we're going to Barbados for the weekend in Daddy's private space shuttle...." etcetera all. fucking. day.

Anyway, it came to the stage where I suggested that a full and frank discussion and exchange of opinions may be required after school at the generally approved location for such debates(the hill behind the sports hall). I propsed the motion, and it was seconded by fuckhead.

I turned up late. I ws unaccountably held back with an attack of the "you boy, tuck in your laces/tie your shirt/brush your tie/iron your face" from a random teacher. So I was in a less than happy mood when I arrived at "the kicking hill."

"Right Carrot" brayed Veevers. "I'm going to teach you a fucking lesson for wasting my time." He walked over, pulled his fist back...

...swung...


...overbalanced....

...and fell.

Luckily, a bench broke his fall.

Unluckily it was the corner of the bench that broke his fall.

Unluckily still, he broke the fall with his nuts.

EVERYONE who saw this winced. I actually believe that Veevers passed out for a moment, and fair play to the fucknugget, I would too. When he came to, he folded into a foetal position (as you do) and unfortunately decided to lose his lunch. Being doubled up, it went all down his front. He limped home crying.

So, that's how I won a fight thanks to my secret ally, Mr Bench.

The next week at swimming, Veever's scrotum was about the colour and size of a ripe aubergine. Hence his nickname for the rest of school of "purpleplums."

Ta for that one, Jeebus!
( Undercovercarrot got done for gross misconduct on..., Fri 30 Jan 2009, 6:36, 5 replies)

Jim
Long time lurker, first time poster. Probably off topic, but here we go.

I was at a rural university in Victoria, in Australia, smack bang in the middle of the La Trobe Valley (this where most of the electricity for the state comes from). Fun times they were. I lived on campus and had the dubious honour of being vice president of all those who lived on campus of which there were nearly 400. This was in 1991. I was the organiser of all social functions, which basically meant that my unit had free beer, as I was corrupt and took beer with every order I did. As a result I was fairly well known on campus amongst the drinkers. And I couldn't do too much without people knowing what I and my housemates were up to. Lucky for some, unlucky for others.

Anyways, every Wednesday night there was a function – a 'do' in the local language. A toga party no less. My housemates and I decided not to go, but a new arrival did. I'll call him Jim, as that was his name. He was a large lad, from a small country town closer to the coast that we were. He was a strange fellow, kept night hours and was generally a pain in the arse and didn't fit in with our Yeah beer! Boo authority! Thing we had going.

As I said we stayed in drinking beer while Jim went to the do. I was impressing a young lass with my ability to drink beer, and once she had enough I walked her back to her unit. No hide the sausage for me, so I came back to my unit. It was late, past 1 AM, and cold as it was winter. I came around the corner and saw a lump of white sitting on the steps to our unit. It was Jim. I said 'are you OK?', the mumbled reply indicated that he was. So I kept going. I stepped over him, and managed to give him a knee to the side of the head while climbing over him, and off to bed I went.

I had an early class the next morning, so got up and proceeded to the bathroom. I did notice some footprints coming from the bathroom. They got less prominent the further up the hall they went, meaning that they came from the bathroom. I said to myself 'that's a funny colour of mud' and continued into the bathroom. I followed the footsteps into the toilet, pushed open the door to find shit on the floor, in front of the toilet and also shit coloured finger scrapes going down either wall (and on closer inspection, the inside of the door too).

I went out of the toilet into the hallway where I said, 'that's fucked'. A housemate came out and said 'what are you complaining about you helped make the mess' to which I told him to have a look in the toilet. He came out and said the same thing. We decided to go and have a go at Jim, who we suspected was the culprit.

Down the corridor we went, and opened Jim's door to be confronted by a shit miasma. We backed away and went in again. I gave Jim a spray about being a pig and told him to clean the mess up. He got up and did, I went to class. (I have a photo of the after effect on the lino, but couldn't figure out how to load it, if someone tells me, I'll do it!)

Later I came back and Jim was sitting around as usual doing nothing, so I gave him another burst about being a pig. Jim had to throw out his mattress as it was covered in shit, and put the bedding into the wash. This being a Thursday, we were all going home, so left and thought nothing else of it.

Came back Sunday night. Another housemate and I noticed the washing machine was on. Open up and see the bedding from Jim's bed still in there from Thursday. We got a plastic bag, bagged the stinking mess up and threw it in the bin. Jim now had no mattress, and no bedding. I doubt any human could have slept in the bedding. These were supplied by the university. Meaning he had to explain where they went. Of course we let the management know what had happened and sat back and waited for the action.

The head of campus students came over and gave Jim a rev, made him sign a note that he wouldn't drink any more, made him (or his parents) pay for the bedding, and told him to start attending classes and keep more regular hours. I can understand how Jim went off the rails, as I discovered the joys of drugs in my first year (straight out of a private all boys grammar school), and almost fucked my academic life up. But at least I never shat the bed when I was stoned off my chops.

Jim settled down after that and eventually decided to move to another unit to be closer to his brother (I think his name was James – they were country folk). This meant a swap where one of our mates came into the house which suited all. However, Jim continued his strange ways. We had a mate with one arm – he lost the other to cancer – and he was in the same house as Jim. He was a nice bloke and wouldn't hurt a fly. He used to go to bed, and wake to find drawings that Jim had done on the table. Not much he thought, as he leafed through them. Until they started to change to pictures of a large chap chasing a person with one arm with an axe.

Eventually the pictures started to become more gruesome with the one armed person with an axe in their head, back, and chopped up with a big bloke standing over them. He wasn't too worried, and let it go. But he did lock his door from then on.

Anyway, the rumour that Jim shat himself in the toilet, and bed, got out. It would be hard not to. He retorted by saying that we planted horse shit in the toilet to frame him and also in his bed. We were always too drunk and apathetic to plan something this intriguing. I saw it and it didn't look anything like horse shit, and I sometimes spend twice a day studying shit.

Some wit took it upon himself to name Jim, 'Jim the shitter'. And that was his name until he left that university some time later. It probably still is. He wasn't happy about it and moved off campus the next semester into a share house in a major town where last I heard he was paying far too much for rent.

I mentioned that Jim had a brother on campus too. He was a cunt, one night attempted to get to know the object of my desires, he didn't succeed, and didn't try it again. But after the shitting incident he was known from then on as 'Shitter's brother'.

Imaginative people we were.

Sorry about the length - it's a hot boring afternoon here in Melbourne.
(Snapper-head loves a twinky anytime but especially when it's, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 6:31, 1 reply)

Feet
I have wide feet, always have. By wide I mean that while my feet have always been size "x" long, I have to add 1 size more for the width (so 11 becomes 12).

They have always been like this, so much so that when I was younger, my ever worrying mother took me to the doctor.

"He has flat feet" says the doc "buy him some shoe insteps"

So, off we go to the chemist and buy a pair of a well known brand.

Next day, I go off to school, step down form the high step of the bus, forget to compensate for the added bit of height, and then go
arse over tit in front of a pack of giggling girlies, whacking my head and felling all dizzy...

ahhh....schol daze
(smirker neverletmetellyabouttheraggamuffinbiznessandting!, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 6:20, Reply)

Ah bygone days.
I have many a tale to tell of wicked schoolground escapades, more than enough to make up for last weeks lack of anything at all relevant.

R.E. always seemed to be the one class guaranteed to supply hilarious events for the pupils and red faced rage for the long suffering R.E. teacher.

Our R.E. teacher was a real die hard crazy man. A fully ordained minister, he has his own religious radio show and he's still on the go at my newly rebuilt high school, and I recently heard he'd been suspended for hitting a pupil (little blighter probably deserved a smack and I doubt he actually did it) if that narrows it down any.

This man was great. Stuff even wet behind the ears schoolkids had trouble swallowing was, quite literally, gospel truth to him.

The world was created in seven days, Adam and Eve wandered about with no pants on, a talking snake gave Eve a magic apple, all that stuff was as normal as anything.

Worryingly, I seem to remember that I got him for History in first year (or year 8 for all you weird non-scottish people.

So when my ex-sister-in-law pipes up "Sir...... what about the dinosaurs?" in the middle of his R.E. class, perhaps throwing her out into the hall and threatening to suspend her was a slight overreaction.
( baw__bag contains traces of nuts on, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 4:43, 2 replies)

the funniest thing i ever saw in school
was a table tippexed with the huge legend
BOOB GOT FUDGE-PACKED UP THE SHITBOX
It's less funny now,but the most potent memory of my twelfth year was laughing so hard in an otherwise silent classroom than i burst a blood vessel.It still makes me laugh now,and I wish I knew who Boob was,how the author was privy to this information,or whether the author had created this vivid graffiti while in the act of fudge-packing Boob.
(Fuckpig "That's not even a pound a midget.", Fri 30 Jan 2009, 4:38, Reply)

the only fun i had in high school
was when a busload of swedish netball players crashed into a fourteen-wheeler carrying ten thousand bottles of tequila outside our school gates,littering the playground with dazed,blonde,well-endowed women (many of whom had been blown out of their clothes and yet were remarkably philosophical about it) and crates of booze.It's amazing what a shock-treatment massage can lead to.

I'm told the party lasted upward of two weeks and the government had to send the army in to break it up.
(Fuckpig "That's not even a pound a midget.", Fri 30 Jan 2009, 3:51, Reply)

I live in the country
and have found my high school to be full of ...shall we say...twunts.
I don't have many funny stories, and the ones I do have aren't even very funny. However - I shall elaborate on the one I posted about on the first page....

Convincing my biology teacher to set the table on fire
This was fun. The teachers at my school hate graffiti on the desks, and always keep a can of hairspray nearby to thin out the ink to wipe it off. One day my biology teacher sprayed the whole table and noticed that underneath where he was scrubbing - it was a shade lighter in colour then it had been previously.
"aaah" says I "that's because the hairspray lifts everything off but doesn't do anything to the table itself - that's probably the colour of the table the day it was new!"
"yeah I know" says the biology teacher.
"in fact" says I, an idea forming in my pyromanic teenage mind, "you could spray that whole table with hairspray and set it alight, and nothing will happen to the table! Look! I'll show you!"

At this point - my biology teacher jerks the hairspray out of my reach and says firmly,
"if anyone is going to set fire to a table in this school - its going to be ME."
and with that pulls out a cigarette lighter, sprays the whole table liberally in hairspray before lighting it.

Then realises the table was, in fact, on fire.
Then grabbing the fire blanket before the alarm went off.

I got sent to the front office and bollocked for it but my god the look of panic and fear on his face were priceless.

I'm still giggling about it.
(Poppet some assembly required., Fri 30 Jan 2009, 3:46, 1 reply)

i can has poop?
in middle school I had a teacher who was paralyzed waist-below, so he toted around in a wheelchair. One day I asked him how he peed and pooped.

we went out in the hall to talk in private. he described his bodily functions to me in a graphic manner, tube and shitbag and his wife assisting and all. um wow. I went back to my desk and resumed working. he slowly wheeled up to my desk, leaned in, and said "But my dick works during sex just as good."

never forgotten.
(yourworldwontcollapse reminds you, it isn't incest after second cousins!, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 3:28, Reply)

Year 12 Psych: Sexual Pathology.
I did my assignment, but the dog ate me out.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 3:24, 1 reply)

i had never seen two semi-adult people fight over harry potter before..
until i met Catherine.
Catherine was special,or whatever the hell you call it. She hung out in the learning thingy-type place, and she had a strong love and adoration for pikachu and harry potter. She was often to be seen wandering the school,playing Pokemon Ruby.This was 2007. For all that,she was a lovely person,as opposed to the foul,pithecantropoid gene-slurry mudfucks that were 'normal' and,distressingly,my peers.

Word got around that she had developed a strong crush on the young mister Radcliff , nee mister Potter,who she assured the world most stridently was real.

and so,sitting minding my own business on the bus,i had the tingly pleasure of watching Al,a tanned,athletic,sloped-foreheaded young fleshwaste wander up the bus,stop directly in front of her seat and announce,with moronic grin,unlit cigarette perched under a running nose and small, piggy eyes, in a voice that was heard by God almighty,
"HARRY POTTER FUCKED YOUR MOTHER."
Bam.I have never seen a person move so fast.Catherine leapt out of her seat and hit him so hard and so fast that it slowed time itself.You know that scene in Snatch where Bradd Pitt gets hit and everything slows down? Al seemed to hang in the air like a Platonic cone,and the moment still swims in my head in perfect,photographic clarity.It was beautiful....just...perfect.
everyone on the bus laughed themselves into fits,Al went to hospital with a broken jaw and nobody ever messed with Catherine again.
(Fuckpig "That's not even a pound a midget.", Fri 30 Jan 2009, 2:53, Reply)

Defecation difficulties
Background for context: At school my main friends were Iain, Joe, Martin and Kane through Year 10. We all had started learning the guitar (Iain is now fucking awesome but the rest of us have given up) and that bonded us.

Kane's friend (and I suppose our friend too, he's actually a really good bloke) Tom had also started to play. He was somewhat walking before he could crawl at this point and had begun trying to learn Iron Maiden solos and the like. Because he had no fundamentals he butchered them pretty hard. We took the piss out of each other all the time too, like friends do.

One day Kane, Iain and Tom were having a jam at Kane's. Kane and Iain left the room and Iain picked up a random pair of boxers to throw at Kane, then dropped them like he'd been electrocuted.

"They've got fucking skid marks on them Kane, you dirty cunt!" He yelled.

Kane denied all knowledge, and (careful) close inspection revealed they were far too big for midget half-Chinese Kane. Tom, however, was over 6ft and had stayed at Kane's the previous night. 2+2=4.

Holding them on a stick, Iain threw them at Tom and laughed. Tom went bright red (as he often did) and they took the piss out of him - as you would.

Iain made the mistake of telling me. No more happened until a few months down the line.

I was pretty shit at guitar, and one Science lesson a genius got some Post-It notes and everyone wound up with notes on their back. Tom and Kane came up to me at the end of the lesson when I was talking to Iain, Joe, Martin and assembled others.

"Hey, Matt," he said, smiling. "Did they put a note on your back saying 'I can't play the guitar'?"

I froze. This was it. Rarely in your life do you get such perfect and beautiful moments for a comeback, but this was it.

"No, Tom, they didn't," I said nochanlantly, savouring the fact that no-one knew of the monster I was about to unleash. "Did they put one on your back saying I CAN'T WIPE MY FUCKING ARSE?!"

Stunned silence. I left without saying another word to Tom, who was stock still and stunned in the middle of the room. Kane was fuming and Iain, Joe and Martin were literally on the floor.

Best comeback ever.
(MJPerry was crude but clickable at, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 2:25, Reply)

The Battle of Northwood Fields
History remembers many great and terrible days. These specks of sand in the hourglass of time and space are highlighted by bloodshed and pain; jubilation and victory. They are the great battles of our time.

The January of 2005 had wrapped its frosty claws around Northwood High School. The breath of students hung in the air before dissipating into the icy winds. A sheen of cold covered every exposed surface, and heavy snow had fallen upon the school fields.

One fateful day in January, the bell sounded its ringing cry across the grounds, signalling the start of lunch. Little did anyone know that today the bell was not a timekeeper; it was a signal of war.

You may have seen snowball fights, oh yes. But this… this was a snowball battle of epic proportions. Veterans of the day, now at University or in full-time jobs, will wake up screaming with cold sweat soaking their shaking bones. You don’t know, man. You don’t know because you weren’t there!

It began innocently enough. Myself and my fellows, now in our tenth year of education, were confident of waging a campaign to be reckoned with. There were plenty of chavs in the years below that we’d relish striking down with a compacted ball of arctic fury – and so it began.

Iain led the first charge, directly at a particularly loathsome specimen of happy-slapping, train-tagging, Lambrini-drinking inbred little pissweasel. At the head of a mighty arrow, he struck. Direct hit! Next came myself, Petley and Martin. Three further strikes on the thuggish cretin. Bringing up the rear were Egghead and James, and two more blows rained hell upon him.

Suffice to say, it escalated. No sooner was our merry band of six happily running amok through playing schoolchildren than we found ourselves the head of a vast army. We were joined by dozens of others throughout Year 10 as we literally took on the school.

A stroll through the battlefield on our side would tell you the extent of the war effort. At the front lines, Iain and others would lead sorties into the chav army (who numbered now in their hundreds). In the middle the long range throwers and the pinpoint snipers would be providing covering fire, and at the rear the girls were gathering snow and constructing some truly monstrous snowballs.

As for the individual conflicts within the battle, there are too many tales to tell. Perhaps the epic defence of Tom Gibb’s mother, who was brazenly insulted by a chav before the aforementioned boy was pelted with snowballs behind enemy lines. We surged forth to free our beleaguered comrade and defend the honour of Mrs Gibb.

Or there was the point where James saved my life. Fresh from a sortie, I retreated from no mans’ land to our lines. As I turned to observe the left flank all I saw was a snowball explode less than an inch from my nose as James leapt forward to punch it from the air. We looked at each other, nodded, then returned to battle.

At one point, Iain was struck from behind by the very same chav we first bombarded. As his rage built he let out a great bellow and a rather racist expletive. Fighting ceased. The armies came forth and opened a circle from whence the chav leader, a hulking great brute of a boy with the combined IQ of a sprout and a cabbage, stepped forward. Iain met him as the once-warring armies watched. A truce was called, an apology was made, and the men backed off. Then, to war once more.

I remember the end most of all. Striding through the battlefield, once white with a sheet of snow, it had been raped for ammunition until barely the sludge remained. All sides were exhausted as we stood on the field, a full ten minutes after the end of lunch. I turned to Martin, observing that no-one had eaten.
“Matt,” he said to me sagely. “In war, there is no lunch. Only the bitter taste of defeat.”
I observed the field. Our army was back to the core group plus some loyal soldiers – less than a dozen. Meanwhile, over thirty chavs stood off, throwing missiles of mud and sludge and ice. I went to Iain: “We have to end this,” I said. And that was when we took our glory.

“CHARGE!” Iain cried, and our motley band of followers ran toward the chav army, bending down and scooping up anything you could throw. I remember clearly the nervous ripple in their ranks as they realised “fucking hell, these crazy cunts are going to run us down!”

They broke and scattered. One of my fondest memories is of us charging them down, pure ecstasy on our faces as they ran for dear life. Scrambling over their stumbled comrades to escape, they fled up the stairs and into the building like rats from a sinking ship.

It was fucking beautiful.
(MJPerry was crude but clickable at, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 2:17, 3 replies)

Fights
Was it just my school where the best fights were always between girls?

One in particular stood it, partly because of it's savage nature, and partly because of the contribution of those watching.

It takes a lot for the _entire_ playground of 500-600 pupil school to surround one fight, but man this one was spectacular. The entire pupil population gathered round in a heaving circular mass of baiting and encouragement, completely locking the girls in, and not helping one bit.

Unless you call passing into the fight half a pool cue as helping?
(Zutroy started without you, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 2:06, 1 reply)

Sorry Miss!
My dog ate my answer.
(Dangerous Disco Trev Isn't my real name, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 1:57, 2 replies)

no bullshit.here are some 'things' that kids did 'for a laugh' in my school.
There was...the kid who set fire to a girl's heavily-sprayed head with a miniature flamethrower made out of a can of bug spray.
There was Danny D, who put a knife between my knuckles 'for a laugh',almost setting me back considerably on my way to grade four piano.
Kudos to Tom B, who put his head through a wire-reinforced window 'for a laugh' and just missed cutting his face off.He's now a mountain-climber,a job that presumably doesn't require much brainpower.
Dear old Lee M threw a can of deodorant onto a camp-fire,removing most of his face...
And the kid who pissed down the stairwell from the top floor in between lessons,and was carried off screaming and never seen again...and the kid who lit a joint in a maths class because it 'helped him concentrate',who was led off sobbing and never seen in school again. He later appeared at the school gates and tried to sell me a pound (!) of resin.I was twelve.
My school days were not fun.They were grimy and shitty,and nostalgia makes things seem better,like watching a shit program with bad reception.
Special mention should go to my father,who is a kind, gentle, compassionate and utterly responsible soul, who was expelled from Fettes at fourteen for ,in the words of the police report, 'manufacturing high-grade explosives with intent and then using said articles to destroy a water closet.'. He then ran away to Australia, but that's another story,children....
(Fuckpig "That's not even a pound a midget.", Fri 30 Jan 2009, 1:36, 2 replies)

Ear Stretching
My secondary school was a right laugh, best years of my life.
In year 10 i got my left ear pierced and set about stretching the piercing as large as i could.
My parents were cool with it aslong as i wasn't harming myself.
So anyway after a good year my ear is stretched to around 12mm and i had put the taper in to stretch to 14mm.
I had fairly longish hair think.. er, emo..
we'll keep that quiet cos i wasn't an emo i was just trying to score points with the fit emo chicks i hung around with.. ( it worked )
Anyway so i shaved my head, and was promptly spotted by a senior teacher, lectured and sent to the headmaster's office where he lectured me again, then made me sit down the corridor his office was on for the rest of his day.
He then phoned my dad to tell him how bad i had acted.
(On being told to remove my plug, i told them in the most polite way, i was to do no such thing and there was nothing against stretched piercing in the code of conduct)

I think i confused them so they got even more angry.
Anyway my parents told him to piss off because they were happy with how their child chooses to look.
They kept on and tried to get my parents to come to meetings i was instructed by said parents to tell them to piss off, so i did, and i was told i was not to leave the corridor untill i removed my plug.
(It wouldn't have mattered if i did remove it, it was the principal!)
cue two weeks of no lessons just sitting there bored, in the end i took it out so i could see my friends.
Long story short, the battle raged on untill i left last year, when at the prom the headmaster came up to me shook my hand and complimented my on the size of my plug (it had steadily grown)

yay me 1 school 0 woo
(Bludfoot rushing out since, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 1:23, 5 replies)

Still Bitter 2.
I was, and to a small extent still am, affected by the learning disorder dyspraxia (and to a lesser extent dyslexia), a condition affecting fine motor skills and co-ordination. This basically meant my hand writing was very messy, difficult to read, and often, full of mistakes. Most teachers would be ok with this, understanding I had a medically diagnosed condition.

Not Mrs Coe. Mrs Coe taught Spanish, which I was average at. She would always have a go about my writing, not understanding that it wasn’t a jumbled on purpose. I was mostly ok with it, hey it was nothing compared to the stick I got for being a geeky lad who didn’t like sports. Sadly, she took it too far. A piece of home work I had done was returned with the note “I’m sorry I cannot read this, please re-do for next lesson, word-process if possible.” I went to do it on the computer, but alas, my sister was working on it. I wrote the work very neatly, and added a note apologising it wasn’t typed, but I couldn’t get on the computer. Imagine my confusion a few days later when my name was called out on the central detention list (45 mins after school, supervised by a member of staff, one step down from suspension) in the morning assembly.

Turns out my homework wasn’t good enough, and rather then a 10 minuet or half hour detention fitting to failing to hand in homework, the bitch put me in central detention. I went to my head of year, who was rather fond of me. She went totally berserk. Like a menopausal Spartan. Mrs Coe was called to her room, and apparently, the shouting of my head of year carried rather far. I was excused from detention.

Happy ending? Not yet. A few days latter I saw sat in Spanish, thinking what to write. I tend to touch my chin when I think, so my left hand was on my chin, my right hand tapping my pen on my page. Out of the blue, Mrs Coe glares up at me and says. “Chris, maybe if you put your left hand on your paper your handwriting wouldn’t be such an unreadable mess.” The whole class were in a shocked silence. I wasn’t popular, I used to wear huge glasses (hurrah for contacts!) and was in all honesty, different. The class was full of lads who usually didn’t mind taking the piss out of anything I did. But they all just looked shocked, it was like criticising a guy in a wheel chair for having poor tap dancing skills. She crossed a line, it was picking on a disability. I was a very well mannered lad, and I respected teachers, so my response was pretty out of character. “Maybe if I was writing that would be an issue.” The ugly hags face fell further then usual, she looked flustered. “W..Well get writing!” she shouted. Unable to think of anything else to say I shouted, “I WILL!” and started scribbling some load of badly written Spanish bollocks.

Looking back, I wish I’d told her to fuck off, or possibly reported it. I wasn’t looking for a free ride or cashing in on my dyspraxia, just a fair chance. Hitting out at a child who already lacked confidence over a disability? I guess she had some issues of her own to act out on her students.

6 years on, I still feel angry.
(Mong goose, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 1:15, 2 replies)

Schools don't teach science.
This is a bit of a hobby horse of mine, but...

School 'Science' courses teach you a set of trivia - which bit of an insect is the thorax and which the abdomen, the difference between a cumulus and a nimbus cloud etc.

Those things are, at best, the fruits of science, not science itself. In a lot of cases they're not even that. 'This is the thorax and this is the abdomen' teaches you nothing about insects - it's a fact about the use of language.

'Science', if it means anything, means subjecting your ideas to constant scrutiny - that, and a set of formal processes to allow you to do so.

If music courses were run in the same way, students wouldn't do anything but memorise song lyrics, and it'd never be mentioned that there's a structure to music.

It's almost as if they didn't like the idea of widespread intelligent skepticism.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 1:03, 8 replies)

Sticky mess
A year 12 physics lesson and we're learning of the joys of viscosity. The experiment basically involved pouring honey over a glass plate and timing it as it spread out. In order to ensure a constant volume of honey, we chopped the bottom off film canisters and placed them on the glass plates. Simply fill the canister with honey, then remove the canister and watch as the honey slowly spreads out over several mind numbingly dull minutes.

Simple enough. However, for one individual this proved a far too complex task. Rich was, shall we say, hard to like. He was once heard to utter the phrase "Of course we're only using the jag while the Bentley's being serviced" and was basically Richie Rich without the kidapult or rollercoaster in his back garden.

Rich finds the careful spooning of honey a far too laborious task, so he instead decides to pour the honey staight from the jar. Of course he needs a good look at what he's doing and so he picks up the film canister and holds it about an inch from his face. You see, Rich had completely failed to notice that there was no base to the canister and, viscous as the honey may have been, there was absolutely nothing to stop it running all over his shirt, tie, trousers, pretty much everywhere.

I stared in disbelief at this kid intently wondering why its taking so long to fill what is effectively a tube. All the while he's adding another layer of honey glaze to his clothing. A couple of classmates start to laugh and Rich too starts to chuckle, horrendously unaware of what's going on. At this point I'm pretty much on the floor I'm laughing so hard.

I think I almost stopped breathing when he held the canister up and peered curiously at the bottom ...
(wordsworthless is outnumbered but never outpunned, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 0:49, Reply)

Still bitter.
Year 11 ICT, a lad was talking loudly about how when he wanked, he'd shove a finger up his arse. Fair enough. Teacher (who was later disciplined for being inappropriate with the girls) looks up from his work and says:
"[lad's name], as fascinating as your personal life is, its time you did some work".
Quick as a flash I add in.
"Yeah, get your finger out!"
Silence. Teacher looks at me.
"Yes very good, now you get to work too."

Gutted. Perfect punnage and all I got was recognition off a nonce.
(Mong goose, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 0:46, Reply)

My maths teacher went on to become a scriptwriter for 'Lost'
He made the lessons interesting, yet at the end of the year I realised I had no idea what was going on.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 0:44, Reply)

Booby Trapped Chalk
Approx 1990, a Boys Grammar School.
A group of smart, yet stupid, young fellows with brains overheated with all the new learning.

The Good Idea: drill out the centre of a piece of chalk down the long axis, insert a non-saftey match, cover and fill hole with chalk dust.

The theory: Sir uses the chalk and at the first long swooping underline the chalk wears down until the match head makes contact with the board and ignites through friction. Supposedly inert chalk stick spits small flame and small cloud of smoke, laughter ensues.

Practice.
Unfazeable Further Maths teacher picks up infeasibly new stick of pristine chalk suspiciously lying in the centre of the desk and uses it throughout the lesson. Never was a piece of chalk so closely observed as it journey across the blackboard. Every stroke the focus of our acute attention. Eventually a flourish on the blackboard ignites embedded match and Sir pauses, looks at the end of the now smoking match, and quietly announces: "oh. Very good, quite clever" turns chalk around to use virgin end and lesson continues.
Perpetrators look smug at successful jape.

Like all good scientists, we had to repeat the experiment.
The Applied Maths teacher. The nicest chap you could hope to meet. Never a raised voice or cross word. Picks up infeasibly new stick of pristine chalk suspiciously lying in the centre of the desk and uses it for the lesson. Time passes, swooping diagram, chalk stick ignites, Sir looks at sparking end of chalk, burns finger and drops chalk in surprise.
A visibly disappointed Sir turns slowly from the board and calmly declares "I hope none of you boys were responsible for this"
Instantly our smug amusement turns to shame at the hurt inflicted on a decent teacher and we mature in nano seconds. One chap owns up. Sir's look of disappointment is all the punishment we need and nothing more is said.

Bravo, Sirs.
(Rich T has a clever and witty sig, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 0:31, Reply)

Are You Ready To Be Heartbroken?
School was a blast. I mean, you couldn’t get away with fingering 12 year old girls, smoking in toilets, or wanking into girls hand bags in adult life. Back in school it was common practice. In fact, if you did none of the previous, let’s face it, you didn’t even go to school.

I had some great times. Putting Estelle's hair though the guillotine, getting suspended for telling the Geography teacher I had a wet dream about her and learning to recite expletives to my darling mother in German without her knowing were just a few highlights. Adolescent absurdities aside I did manage to learn a few things while I was there. Most notable being the fact that adult life and the crushing responsibilities it brings is rubbish.

Interest rates, mortgage deals, inflation, economic crisis blah blah blah. How fucking tedious and incredibly boring. If I was at school, I would be more concerned about where I was going to steal my next Parker pen from or the next teachers life I was going to make a living misery.

All these childish and cringe worthy exploits behind me, I learned that school shapes you. I had my first fight, sexual experience and teenage crush during my school years. Arrrgh, that first teenage crush. You will never forget it. Mine was a chubby girl, she was lovely, the kind of girl that in later life would bring up three honest kids with you, bake you cakes and make you feel complete. She smelt like summer days, spoke softly and warm, and always had an air of honesty about her. She always had a boyfriend though, but we would always meet on the way home from school and chat, have a laugh and just enjoy each others company.

At that particular time, my sister was studying at university. Whenever she was back for the weekend she would endlessly play Lloyd Cole and the Commotions, and as a result I became to love this band as much as she did. The song ‘Perfect Skin’ in particular used to remind me of this teenage crush. Whenever it played, I felt warm, happy, and at ease with the crush I had on her. I was somehow safe in the knowledge that one day she would be mine.

School ended, I left the town I lived in for a short while, and ‘Perfect Skin’ became that record that you would always dedicate to your first crush and forget about it.

I turned 25 4 months ago, and being a music fan, geek, insomniac and sad twat, I thought it would be interesting to compile a list of my 100 favorite songs of all time, write about every single one of them, describing what they mean to me, and why they feel special, stuff them into a box, forget about it, and open it in 25 years time and listen to the discs and read the write ups for a giggle.

I wish I hadn’t. Just before Christmas, said girl added me on Facebook. A few harmless messages later, me, a couple of my friends and her best mate from school met up for a reunion drink. I hadn’t seen this angel for nearly nine years. All I can say is wow. She was even more attractive, charming, beautiful and perfect than I remembered her to be. The night was great, she had just suffered a break up and everything I said to her made her giggle in the same way that it did all those years ago.

Like all good things, the night came to an end, and just as I felt after every time I walked her home from school, I felt optimistic and good, and safe in the knowledge that there were good people in this world.

Anyway, I couldn’t get her out of my head, I had to get a message to her. I had to tell her what I though about her and her amazing smile. So I e-mailed her something that I thought would clinch it for me, instead I came across as a middle aged stalker.

Here’s what I wrote...

I forgot to tell you I struggle with sleep, hence me still being awake, I told you I like to write, so I thought I would send you something to make you appreciate how good it was to see you. As I like music, and writing, I thought a nice thing to do would be to compile a cd and some words to mark my quarter stay on this troubled planet. Something I could compile and write, look back on in many years, laugh, cringe or hold my hands in triumph to. I have hand picked 100 gems, and wrote about them all, everyone with a meaning. Word for word this is one I wrote that involves you, I hope you like it.

Lloyd Cole & The Commotions - Perfect Skin

My sister used to play this when she was back from University. I would have been about thirteen, and I have adored this song ever since. Lloyd Cole is an extremely talented songwriter and this song will always remind me of a girl I used to fancy at school. She simply had perfect skin and this song represents a teenage crush perfectly.

Sooo..........what do you reckon? bit soppy, but not a fucking bad attempt was it? Anyway, she is back with some Walsall bot now who probably wears tight jeans, drinks Mojitos and probably believes a good time involves shopping in Topman.

I’m not bitter, but I did decide to change Lloyd Cole’s entry in the top 100 to ‘Are You Ready To Be Heartbroken’
(Sir_Digby_Chicken_Caeser [email protected], Fri 30 Jan 2009, 0:28, 1 reply)

Tape recorded lesson
We had a student teacher for a number of weeks of A-level physics. He had a hilarious set of teeth that earned him the nickname Agrajag*, but once we'd got over that, he was actually pretty reasonable as student teachers go.
[*Minor character in the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, described as "a giant mutant bat with long curving teeth that lacerate his own face every time he moves his jaw."]

A couple of weeks into his time with us, he turned up with a tape recorder to record the lesson. He set it up on the front desk with the obviously silly instruction that we were to "ignore it and act as if it wasn't there".

There was the predictable round of fart noises and so on, but again, we settled down and got on with some physics.

...until a quiet period later in the lesson, when Karl's voice called out from behind me, "Sir, why are you standing on the table with your trousers round your ankles like that?"

Oh how we larfed.


Length? I didn't see, I was doubled up.
(Sir Reginald Slapknackers last slapped his knackers at, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 0:14, Reply)

Fun with combustible elements
It's year 8. I'm in a boys grammar school, and naturally enough, we are having a science lesson. This one is on the elements. Yawn.

Today though, is different. The teacher gathers us round to show us some raw elements. From a jar he produces a small piece of what looks like dirt.

"Now this class, is Phosphorus. It's fairly combustible, which means? Anyone?"

Everyone suddenly finds the floor or the ceiling very interesting indeed.

"It means it is volatile, and likely to catch fire when in contact with oxygen." Now we're listening. The arsonist in us all has started paying attention.

"To stop this, the element is usally kept in oil, but I've taken it out to show you."
"Ummm...Sir?"
"Yes, what is it?
"Why is it smoking?"

And with that, the little piece of phosporus catches fire. The teacher panics and drops it on the desk. The desk catches fire. The element bounces and hits the floor. The floor catches fire.

"I think you should all leave" The teacher says with a weary sigh
"Why sir?"
"The fumes are highly toxic, and this room is going to be full of them fairly soon"

We all run out, making the maximum amount of panic possible.

Best science lesson ever
(Urban Hermit Exit, pursued by a bear on, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 0:05, Reply)