Second Form Paramilitary Wing.
The discovery that filling someones Adidas bags with gas from the Chem Lab and setting it alight could cause a big explosion was very funny.

Being taken to hospital with no eyebrows/lashes or hair on the front half of my head was positively less so.
(Tugnut Ex of this parish, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 12:07, Reply)

I was born with the same name as half of a popular comedy double act of the eighties.
Rhymes with "Nobby Nall". This man had a catchphrase - *pulls on braces* "Rock on, Tommy!" The first time I heard that it started to lose its appeal. I subsequently heard it about once a week at school.

Then when I was about 13, on a school skiing trip, some bright spark noticed that the song "Rubber Ball" also bore a similarity to my name. Not only did I have a catchphrase, I now had a terrible, terrible song that people would sing at me as well. By the time I left, I'd acquired the nickname "Rubber", used by pupils and teachers alike.

After leaving school I changed my name by deed poll to something ordinary and anonymous. It worked, since the worst nicknames I've had to put up with since then have been Morrissey (hair-related) and Geoff (two people with the same first name living in one house). I quite liked Geoff.
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 12:00, Reply)

Every time..
"You can work in pairs"
"But I like working in apples!"
I don't think the teachers liked me very much.
( waffle1 is lurking on, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 11:59, Reply)

The "Stones"
When I was in the 5th year of secondary school, a new 1st year had joined, known simply as "Stoney" (as his surname was Stone, completely unimaginative). He did look like Uncle Fester; aged 11, 6 foot, bald and resembling that thumb-head guy who'se been trolling the main boards for the last few days. As you can imagine, he got the piss taken out of him constantly. Now the thing with Mr Stone was that he basically shouldn't have been allowed into our school. He was borderline mentally retarded (and that's not a pisstake, he was a danger to himself in terms of stupidity) and when he spoke he sounded like a high pitched 4 year old. In an all-male public school he was cannon fodder.

So, after a few months he befriended one of the teachers. In fact, if anything happened he would only report to this teacher. Unfortunately this teacher was a legendary wind-up bastard and fed back everything Stoney told him to his pupils. So we knew all the goss on Stoney, and all was fun.

However, 1 day Stoney come into the class all excited and runs up to teach. "How'd your weekend go Stoney?" asks the legend. "It was sunny, so we went on a picnic in the park" squeaks Stoney. "Really? I wish I saw that" laughs teach. Stoney then replies "We taped it on a camera, I can bring it in tomorrow if you want."

Cha-ching.

If he did, Teach pulled all the stops out on this; he pulled a few favours to claim access to the 1 TV and video the department had, he had teachers who were nothing to do his class all queued up ready to view this vid and most of the 5th year kids (myself included) with seating at the back, waiting for the private viewing of the "Mutant's Day Out".

About 50 of us crammed into a small classroom pissing ourselves at a backward family playing football in a park and choking on triangle sandwiches will be the greatest memory I'll ever have from that school.
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 11:46, 10 replies)

just a thought
As nearly all of the replies to this question mention that the author was not 'one of the cool bunch' or 'part of the in crowd' in school.

This has got me wondering.... either

(A) You only recognise there to be an 'in' crowd if you are not part of it, the 'cool people in school were unaware of there standing, and exclusion of others

or

(B) B3ta is full of uncool geeks
(Lolitaslittlesister, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 11:33, 11 replies)

Just thought of one...


So there I was lying in bed being rudely awoken by my alarm clock, I get up have a shower and get dressed and go downstairs for breakfast.

When I get downstairs I say morning to my parents and eat the delicious breakfast my mother has made for me, say thanks and bid them goodbye.

I go out to the shed and get my bike out, saddle up and start on the 4 mile ride to school.

I used to enjoy the ride as I live in the countryside so you got to see all manner of wildlife (I'm into that sort of shit).

Anyway I digress, so there I am cycling along whistling away to myself when I get to the village that the school is situated in (Weaverham if you care) Cycle up Lime Avenue to the school gates....
and they're shut??? Strange, it's 8:40am, so someone should be here.

And then it dawned on me, there was nobody about because it was fucking Saturday!

By bloody parents had watched me go to school on a fucking Saturday!

8 fucking mile round trip!

I was pissed! (off)

I cycled back hone faster than I've ever gone before, I got to the driveway and cycled down it (We lived in a farmhouse) turned the corner and saw my Mother, Father and Sister stood on the doorstep laughing their heads off, Bastards!

I stormed in and refused to come out for the rest of the weekend.


They'd even gone to the trouble of ringing a neighbour (half a mile down the road) to get them to keep an eye out for me returning so they could be on the doorstep on my return and take the piss.

Cnuts!




(Kip, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 11:33, 6 replies)

School bus shenanigans
For the most part I didn't like secondary school, but the highlight of every day was the bus journey..

1) As we were obviously the cool kids, we had the back row on the bottom of a double decker. Lame as it sounds now, we used to play 'Bundle' every time the bus went round a corner - just involved squashing everyone to one side of the bus. One day we were doing this and the fat kid in the corner started screaming..

'Guys, I'm hanging out the window!!'

'Shut up tubby, that window doesn't even open!' so we continued pushing without looking over.

It turns out we'd pushed so hard that the whole pane of glass had fallen out and smashed on the road and fatty was indeed hanging out of the window, hanging on for dear life..

Needless to say the bus driver went mental..

2) The same fat dude was also pretty gobby. One day he stuck his head out of one of the small sliding windows, and shouted 'Oi, Bitch' at some burly men digging up the road. He then tried to get his head in pretty quickly, and got his fat head stuck on his ears, so one of the workmen came over and punched him in the face. He cried. A lot.

3) There was another fat kid who was one of our friends. He was so lazy and couldn't be bothered to walk to the sweet shop after school so we'd go round and buy loads of stuff and then sell him 1 Malteser for a pound. My first ever get rich quick scheme.

4) A local bigger boy was throwing eggs at the bus one day, so our driver just calmly stopped the bus, turned round and said 'Off you go lads'. About 30 of us piled off the bus and taught the loser the error of his ways..

I don't know if the 928 bus is still running to Wycombe, but they were the best times I ever had.
(mejt, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 11:22, 4 replies)

I once had sex with the fit science teacher in the cleaning cupboard
and by 'sex' i mean dinner.
and by 'the fit science teacher' i mean my friend tom.
and by 'cleaning cupboard' i mean cleaning cupboard.


School was shit.
( Mr Nerdy-Speccy-FuckNuts Ouchy ouchy wa wa!, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 11:21, Reply)

Superman IV...
..."The Quest For Peace" was partly filmed at my school. Everyone in my year got the day off to be extras at an 'American Football' game being filmed on our rugby field. Christopher Reeve spent half the day dangling above said rugby field fom a huge ass crane. Best of all, we all got £10 to do it, which wasn't a bad deal really. Shit film though.
(mcnelson, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 11:18, Reply)

I never understood general studies

I got an F for my essay on Montgomery.
( Naked Ape call me Caitlyn, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 11:15, Reply)

Resistance is Futile
Did anyone else have to do the English Speaking Board exam? Or was this an invention of my (and HLT's) school?

Aged 12 or 13, you had to give a presentation to your peers and an examiner, and then answer questions about it. The topic was up to you.

One boy in my class, whom I shall call Alex, was a badminton player - he was in the England youth team - and so, naturally, that was the subject on which he spoke. Alex also had a very large dimple on his chin.

Questions were invited. One boy, Zam, put up his hand.
"Alex," he said, "Are you so successful because the shape of your chin helps with aerodynamics?"


Zam was later expelled for pulling out a knife during a game of rugby. Given that someone on the opposing team had just called him a paki, I think that was reasonable.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 11:12, 10 replies)

Sex Education: in History class…

My school life social fund was financed privately through the fledgling business of ‘Pooflake Vids ltd.’.

Fiendish in it’s simplicity, it was a door-to-door piracy franchise, where chums would pony up the dough for the latest pirate copy of Ghostbusters II or suchlike, which they could happily watch with their parents…even borrow the money for it…but the kids themselves would know that if they fast-forwarded 15 minutes past the end credits there would be a carefully-added 30 minute-snippet of rubbish 70’s grumble flick; with which they could peruse later whilst tugging themselves into a blurry adolescent mist.

I felt I was providing an all-round family service

As an early teen with two VCRs I spent hours mercilessly tape-to-taping my dad’s crappy scudvids until you couldn’t make out the money shots anymore through the on-screen fuzz, (and occasional accidental over-recording of ‘Songs Of Praise’). The kids would provide their own blank tapes and I would charge £5 a pop. Everybody wins.

However, a downside of this ‘booming bishop-bashing business bonanza’ was that I became quickly desensitised to the ways of pr0nnage. I thought that nothing could shock me anymore…

Until one gloomy morning…in history class...

I was already made to sit at the very front with Mark (who later became the guitarist in our band) because we were the ‘disruptive’ children…but in this particular lesson, Mark had decided to enhance the learning experience by sneaking in a special piece of literature to ‘aid our study’.

And so it was during a particularly mundane lecture on the Middle East that Mark nudged me and whispered:

“Psst, Pooflake, look at this” and he slid a magazine onto my lap.

Now I may not be quickest on the uptake, but it soon became apparent that I had been handed a hard-core ‘art’ mag …as the first page was displaying a rather uncomfortable-looking lady…with her head on the floor and her jotter in the air as if she was in the middle of performing a 'backwards roll'.

However, I fear that if she had chosen to continue with the aforementioned gymnastic routine, her manoeuvre would have ended quite painfully, considering the two gargantuan red dildos sticking out of her dungfunnel at an obtuse angle, making her overall bodyshape resemble a strange sort of ‘over-inflated ‘V’ sign’…pointed with malice in the direction of the grinning moustachioed gentleman who was busying himself by 'crashing his yogurt truck' over the base of her spine.

Now, although I was well-versed in the ways of general filth, Jazz and grotmag-ery, this was still a new and interesting visual experience…for a school day anyway.

Glancing across such frolics and frivolity during class quite took me aback, don’t you know. After weighing up the scenario, and carefully measuring the restraint required considering my surroundings, I decided to adopt the appropriate procedure, which was to have my eyes nearly pop out of their sockets, gasp loudly and mouth the words “Fucking HELL!” towards my smirking classmate.

With the mag on my lap, I began to leaf through the pages and quickly felt the stirrings of an inevitable side-effect (that I’m sure to this day is still a rarity for a lecture on the Arab-Isreali conflict…)

I had initiated the ignition / launch procedure for a stupendous throbbing lob-on of epic proportions.

Of course, not being the best multi-tasker in the world (i.e a male), it soon came to pass that I was dedicating more of my time to the magazine, and less to the plight of the Arabs…(or was it the Isrealis?)

There I was, not three feet from my rambling teacher, panting like a dog in a hot car, with the tip of my tongue poking out the side of my mouth, a veritable Trident missile ready to fizz in my clouts, my peepers fixated on my crotch area and the ‘glazed over’ gurn of a freshly ‘fruited up’ mong after an exhaustive bout of the ‘soggy biscuit’ game.

Amongst the sighs, the squirming on my seat and the occasional rustling sound of pages being moved 90 degrees (to maximise centrefold viewing), it was not very long before the teacher noticed something was amiss.

She glanced around to see a room of attentive young eyes, before her gaze fell upon the hulking mound of perspiring love-blubber, in a world of his own and squelching about at the front of the class.

“POOFLAKE!” bellowed the teacher “WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT?”

I recoil in shock, my head twisting upwards sharply until I’m staring directly into her enraged, squinty eyes.

“erm…” I reply.

“STAND UP, BOY!” she shrieked.

“Ooh…I’d rather not” I begged.

“DO IT!” she screamed.

I slowly rise to my feet, and discovered that somewhere along my journey of erotic enlightenment, my swollen bell-end had escaped through the piss-slit in the middle of my boxers, and was now pressed firmly against the slack material in my grey school trollies. Nothing was left to the imagination. I don’t mean to brag, but I could’ve had someone’s eye out.

I watched as her line of view slowly tracked downwards towards my near-exploding, diamond-cutting pink granite tentpole that was just one thin layer of cheap fabric away from filling the entire classroom with it’s bulging veiny manliness.

She said nothing for a moment, (I’d like to think it took her breath away). Then she reached out and snatched the ‘saucy self-help pamphlet’ from my sweaty clutches.

The class sat in total silence (with the exception of Mark, who in support of my plight had decided to rectally prolapse with badly-stifled laughter) as she scanned across some of the pictures…pictures of which without closer inspection looked more like a soft-lens, close up mish-mash montage of arms, legs, a snifter of chuff-fluff and enough chopped liver to feed every old folk’s home from here to Mozambique.

She remained speechless. My eyes went bloodshot with shame and my face scorched to such a degree that I actually suspected that it could set off the smoke alarms.

Oh yes. I was in trouble.

I was told that the deputy head would send for me later in the day after they had discussed what to do with me.

So far this story is fairly run-of-the-mill...

Here is where it gets weird.

After all that, I left school that day totally unpunished. But THREE, (count ‘em) THREE teachers made a special effort to individually and privately ‘interview’ me on the events that had occurred that day.

I spent the afternoon sat in a cold, pokey little secondary staff room whilst one after the other the men entered…each with dilated pupils and a ‘strange’ fixed expression on their faces…

But there was no scathing lecture on the exploitation of women, punctuated with mournful commentary about how I'd 'not just let myself down, but I'd let the whole school down'. There was no ‘Where did you get the mag?’ or even a: ‘What do you think your parents would say?”.

After long, deliberate pauses, they each asked me questions like:

“How did the pictures make you feel?”

“Desrcibe exactly what was going through your mind as you looked at the photos?”

“What did the images make you want to ‘do’?”

WTF? One even asked me with a scary smirk: “What would you do if you were actually there when these photographs were being taken?”…and “What would you say to these women if you met them ‘in the flesh’?”

What did they expect me to say?...That I’d suddenly developed an inexplicable craving for cream pie?...That from now on, every time I saw the ‘V' Sign (Churchill / Liam Gallagher) I would get an erection?...That the whole sordid commotion made we want to whop my cock out in class and spray soupy schlong-syrup into the teacher’s handbag?

I just shrugged and mumbled: “I dunno…I dunno” to every.single.question.

They then let me go with nothing more than a mild ticking off (but of course they kept the mag).

I brielfy contemplated this bizarre, excruciating experience…before I sprinted out to spread the word of the twisted pervy teachers and their foul depravity of trying to get their kicks by listening to me talk about dildos and wotnot.

On reflection…perhaps they were just trying to make me feel incredibly uncomfortable in an effort to scare me off porn for life…

And if that was their plan…it certainly worked.

Nowadays I can only get a stonk-on watching vids of psychiatrist sessions and old wartime interrogation scenes.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Fri 30 Jan 2009, 11:09, 9 replies)

Fear the Reaper
One day, a kid at our school went nuts after we'd teased him for being a farmer. He brought in a piece of agricultural machinery and started attacking people with it. There were deaths.


Columbine harvesters are dangerous.


This poor pun was inspired by the admirable Dr Ceilidhband.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 11:03, 5 replies)

Back to School
Post PhD, I moved back to my hometown for a bit. One day, I happened to bump into one of my old English teachers, and we got chatting.
He tipped me off that Mr G, who taught politics and philosophy A-level, was about to leave. Noting that my PhD was in philosophy, he suggested that, if I wanted work, I might do worse than to write and offer my services. It being a temporary gig in an independent school, there'd be no need to have a proper interview or anything like that. Nor would the fact that I had no teacher formal training qualifications.

So it was that, in 2004, I found myself a member of the teaching staff at the school I'd left nine years earlier.

In the meantime, they'd appointed a new Principal - a man whom all hated. He had come in from the diplomatic service, so knew next-to-nothing about education; he was an authoritarian God-botherer. Worse, he was a matey, supercilious authoritarian God-botherer.

The night before the Upper VI stood down to go on study leave, there had been a break in. All over one of the buildings slogans had been painted. The slogans were directed at the Principal. None of them was enormously friendly.

Obviously, this caused a minor scandal in the morning - and although CCTV showed who had done it, none of the staff was in any great hurry to punish the perpetrators: they were popular, nice kids - to this extent, the exact opposites to the Principal - and it would be a shame to sabotage their A-levels by taking action at that moment, especially on behalf of such a wanker.

I happened to be standing close to the Principal at the leavers-v-staff football match. He made some comment about the disgusting behaviour of the night before. I tried to be reassuring.
"Well," I said. "At least they used a nice shade of pink."
I'm not sure that that was the response he'd wanted. But it was indubitably true. It was a nice shade of pink, all rich and bright.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 10:54, 8 replies)

Happiest days of her life?
Not for one girl I knew...

Sarah* was the year above me at school, not hugely bright, but very sporty. For a rugger-bugger school, that was enough to make her the darling of a few of the teachers. As long as she kept winning cross-country meets, her grades were enough to keep her in the school.

Until the steeplechase.

This was the final event of the school sports day; all the other events were winding up: the female shot-putters had been wrestled back into their cages, the latest victims of poor javelin-handling had been bundled off to the sanatorium looking like fleshy pincushions, and the entire school was gathered to watch this legendary event, whoop and cheer as the runners performed countless laps, and gasp as they successfully negotiated the water-jump each time.

Ah, yes. The water-jump. A place of mystery and horror: a crumbling waist-height hurdle leading straight into a murky pit of despair, filth and, allegedly, water. A place where sarky juniors were threatened with drowning by exasperated prefects. A hole of scum and disease. And, because 6th-form boys are a repetitive, unimaginative lot, full of piss, freshly added from dozens of teenage cocks the night before. Only the best for our steeple-chasers!

Everything was going well; various kids had successfully been for a smoke without being spotted by a teacher, others had managed to bugger off without their Housemaster/mistress being alerted to their absence, and the steeplechase was nearly over. Sadly, none of the runners had yet fallen into the water beyond their knees, but there was still hope.

And then, it happened. Sarah was ahead of the other girls by a country mile, and was running with a group of boys. They were nearly there: she put on a sprint, to try and break away from this clump of runners. She got to the hurdle, mis-judged it, caught her leg, and plunged face-first into the rancid pool below. She put out her arm in a vain attempt to break her fall. It shattered her wrist immediately. The pain made her gasp, breathing in a lungful of stagnant, stinking water/piss/mud. Then the other runners arrived, unaware of her predicament.
And jumped on her other arm, breaking it in three places.

She was carted off to hospital, crying and vomiting. After having her arms set in plaster, they had to pump her stomach. Not, I think, a point in her life she looks back on with fondness.




*I can't remember her real name, but that's as good as any.
(The Empress it seems you CAN polish a turd!, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 10:47, 5 replies)

Swimming Trunks
There is, in every litter, a runt. A child, weaker than the rest, who is picked on, in a tribal, bullying fashion driven by the insecurities and ignorance of the other children.

No, for once, this one isn't about me. This was the unfortunate child in the same class as me, and it's a shame this had to happen to him.

For summertime at our primary school meant swimming lessons. Our school was not a fancy or particularly well-served one, but somehow, by god-only-knows-what-means, they had their own swimming pool.

I say "swimming pool." It was a lined box that contained chlorinated water. Which was ok if the weather was warm and you were small. (Admittedly I was a fast grower, but by the time I was in year 3 or 4 I'm sure if I stood up the water barely covered my nipples.) So by "swimming pool," I mean "glorified puddle."

Of course, the crazy, evangelical teachers thought this was by far and away the school's greatest asset, and every fund-raising event the school held seemed to be geared towards raising money for the upkeep of The Puddle.

Oh yes: it was outdoors.

And so, as Spring began to yield to Summer, and the sun peered tentatively out from the heavy veil of bland stratus clouds, they decided it was time to get the kids back into The Puddle.

And fuck me, it was cold. I swear my balls should have dropped twice as far as they eventually did, but were inhibited by this early exposure to such glacial water.

So one day, as I stood, waste-deep in this water, the teacher supervising us called out:
"Whose swimming trunks are these?"
And she held aloft a dripping wet pair of speedos.

All the children, naturally, checked themselves and made sure they still had their tender bits covered from everything except the bitter, unrelenting chill of the water.

The trunks were forgotten about. Until the teacher decided it was time for the kids to get out of The Puddle.

And as the runt of the litter climbed the rusty ladder out of the pool, he suddenly realised that the teacher had been holding aloft his trunks.

He was half-way up a ladder, dripping wet and stark naked in front of the whole class.

Children are cruel. They know not what they do. They laughed. He yelped. In spite of all the warmth having been removed from his skin, his cheeks went bright pink. (Both pairs.)

Poor bugger...
(LongJohnBaldry, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 10:39, 4 replies)

...
I took my GCSEs in 1993, so the context of this is somewhere around 1992 or 3. The reason for the date will become clear to some - not to others. Meh.

GH, our IT teacher, was a lovely guy, but not really all that good at controlling a class. Repeatedly, we'd be sitting in the lesson and he'd be trying to teach while, on the back row, the kids would begin to click their fingers and sway in their seats. Quietly, one of them would start singing and slowly the rest would join in...
"Da-da-da da da daddle-ah
Da-da-da da daddle ah-dah-dah
Da-da-da da da daddle-ah"

... someone'd yell...
"YO, DJ! PUMP THIS PARTY!"

... and we'd all join in...
"WHYYYY waste yo' time
Yo know you're gonna be mine..."


(I can't rememer what the song was called, or who recorded it. The alternative was to burst into Temptation by Heaven 17, which was almost as good: one kid givig a falsetto lead, then the rest of us responsing with a rousing "TEM-PTA-TION!")



EDIT: RIS?
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 10:36, 7 replies)

To Lith or not to lithp
We had an Indian Science Teacher. Mr Ibrahim who we nicknamed Ibbies. He had a lisp so it became Ibbieth.

I mention he is Indian because in typical indian comedy (Russel Peter etc) they shake their head like one of those bobble head items at the end of a sentence. it added to his quirk.

One Monday we were due to write a test that week and he made the announcement, "Guyth, I have good newth and bad newth. The Bad newth ith, you are writing two tethtth thith week. The good newth ith, itth the thame tetht thplit up (shake head)"

he could have used less S's... or not become a Thienthe teacher...
(Bluffboy South Africa! World Champions!!!, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 10:34, 2 replies)

Windy Days
Am I alone in noting that gale force wind in the playground sends kids absolutely fucking mental?

We used to love windy days at school. The first school I went to was ancient (it still had fucking air-raid shelters!) and so most of the buildings would howl in the wind, and when we got out onto the playground, it became a veritable battle of kids vs the elements.

I remember one day in 1987, (just before that hurricane flattened the south coast) severe gale/storm force winds battered the school. As soon as the lunch bell went, we charged out into the playground and we were almost blown off our feet. Games of football were interesting (a light chip over a defender's head turned into a wind assisted 30 yard screamer), we got all the litter out of the bins, threw it into the air and watched in awe as a crisp-packet tornado took shape across the playground and out across the nearby allotment (much to the chagrin of the caretaker and allotment owners). Pretending to be Superman leaning 45 degrees into the wind with our coats flapping away like a cape. And for some reason we all got into a line, charged across the playground with the wind adding a few extra MPHs, clothes-lining any girls that happened to get in the way, finally slamming into the wall of the boys' bogs at the opposide end.

Fucking great days!
( h3donist tryin' to play me out as if my name is Sega.., Fri 30 Jan 2009, 10:33, 2 replies)

Odd but..
one of my most vivid primary school memories is the day of the bomb scare. We all had to be evacuated from the school, some even had to be taken to stay at RAF Lyneham for a bit because some farmer had found an unexploded jerry bomb in his field. Disappointing in the end, one of those tiny bomb disposal detonations, being a small boy I of course wantd it to go off properly.
No interesting secondary stories, although I did once make out with the young, pert female teacher I'd had a crush on, but this was years after leaving.
Sorry for lack of interest, I planned for more but it just wasn't on the cards
(fruit_larceny is some kind of communist superman, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 10:31, 7 replies)

My english teacher
was wonderful. A mid-sixties Irish ex-nun who couldn't control the class at all - though luckily we were *usually* good. She loved me (just about the only teacher who could stand me, actually). But that didn't stop me from having fun at her expense.

My favourite project (oh yes, they would go on for a while) was to freak her out when she was reading to the class. I would put on my best disarming smile, tilt my head slightly, and not look away from her eyes. At some point she would make eye contact, and freak out a little bit. I think it scared her a touch, and she would be unable to concentrate or continue reading as she kept looking back at this boy who was just smiling... smiling... smiling...

After a while, the guy next to me joined in. Then a couple more. Until one day she looked up from a witches scene in Macbeth to find 75% of the class staring and smiling... and smiling... and smiling...
(HarryTheMole whatever's on my finger is going in your mouth, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 10:23, 1 reply)

Sorry Mrs Geography Teacher..
My mum doesn't believe in global warming, so she ripped up my homework.
(ShitBitch, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 10:18, Reply)

fire in the hole
A mate of mine who I call The Goose is now teaching science to high school kids. Being a young fellow he tries to make it interesting and fun for his students. For the most part he is good at it.

Until he tried to teach projectile motion using a potato gun.

During the lesson the gun stopped working and the esteemed and educated teacher peered down the barrel to see what was wrong. He pulled the trigger and focused, trying to see why the gun was jammed.

I'm sure at some point we'll all do something stupid enough to come close to winning a Darwin award and this was The Goose's prime moment.

the gun went off. No bullet coming out, just flames that immediately removed his eyebrows and lashes.

at least his students will remember him now...
(Bluffboy South Africa! World Champions!!!, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 10:15, Reply)

PROTECT MY BUSH
Like most teenagers, I had quite a rebellious streak and because my parents were strict I had to save my naughtiness for school.

I was never seriously naughty, just the usual skiving, smoking and bit of cheek.

If I liked the subjects (i.e. English/Home Ec) then I would get on with class and got decent grades but if I didn’t like the subjects (i.e. Math and Science) then I tended to skive/mess around.

My favourite example of this would be when our class was split into groups for a four week biology project in which we had to design and write a newspaper on saving the environment. Our softie (or is that stupid!) biology teacher let us choose our own groups.

We had two lessons a week for four weeks so 8 hours in all. Guess what my ingenious group came up with….

…Page 3 lady with her baps put (beautifully drawn by my good self) with a big bushy tree covering her lady bits. We called this article `Protect My Bush!’.

We even had the gall to hand it in at the end of the project. I swear I saw the science teacher smirk a little. Bless.

We got minor points for creativeness I think.

Those we’re the days :P
( DUMBLONDE is a rubber lover girl, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 10:12, Reply)

first ever german lesson
on the first ever afternoon of senior school. i was 11 and, like the rest of my class, didn't get why this was a shocking thing coming from a fellow 11 year old. i had no idea what one was, or why it was such a bad thing to say:



frau german, with a roguish twinkle in her eyes: "ach, and how do you know i am not a real german?"

liz: "because you're not wearing a swastika".

first day at school, first detention for liz...
( rachelswipe with a fork, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 9:59, 8 replies)

Combine Harvester Joy ! ! !

I blame this one on the fact that I used to live on a fucking HUGE hill...

One Christmas Eve, I must've been six or seven, I remember going to sleep virtually pissing myself at the thought of my sparkly new AT-AT, or possibly the Millenium Falcoln, or at the very least the snow speeder, that would be waiting for be downstairs on Christmas morning. Delivered, no doubt, by a fat bloke with a beard... my dad.

I recall waking up early, scuttling downstairs, throwing open the living room door, to see...

... a fucking bike...

FUCK!!!

I waded through the rest of my booty and found nothing Star Wars related - did my parents even KNOW me??? I thought, because I was an ungrateful little shit.

Eventually, my parents arose from their slumber, and I remember my bleary - eyed father taking me and the fucking bike (as it will always be called in my memory), out to the pavement in front of my house.

"Now then, Spanky," said my Dad. "Climb on board and we'll see how you get on."

I'd never been on one of these fucking bike things before. I was sceptical and still utterly pissed off about my lack of Long Time Ago In A Galaxy Far Far Away clobber...

I clambered onto the bike with as much grace as a fitting epileptic operating a pnumatic drill in each hand.

"Don't worry, Spanky," said my Dad. "I won't let go."

And then he let go.

And because my house was on a fucking HUGE hill, I started to roll forward at an alarming speed.

"ARRRRggggg HHHHHHHH EEEEeeeeeeeeee IIIIiiiiiEEEEeeeee!!! I'M GOING TO DIE!!!" I reasoned.

My dad, the fat bastard that he is, somehow managed to catch up with me thirty or so meters down the street. He stopped the bike. I got off and stormed inside, pulled at my mum's leg in the kitchen where she was busy putting together the Christmas dinner, and I announced:

"Dad has just tried to kill me," and I flounced out and went to sulk in my room.

And the whole fucking bike episode was forgotten.

Until...

I got back to school.

And every fucker in the school seemed to have been given a new bike for Christmas. There must've been a drive by Coventry Council that fucking year, either that or a Raleigh lorry must've been hijacked on the A45.

And every other fucker in my school could ride these things. Even the girls!!! God, I was pissed off!!!

So, being a gobby little shit, when asked if I could ride a bike, I lied.

"'Course," says I. "I'm like Evil Knievel, me... Nah, I keep my wheels at home. They'd get knicked if I brought um to school." I may have even told someone I had a gold plated grifter which spoke like Kit out of Knight Rider, which was possibly a lie too far.

This seemed to be working fine until Miss Facey, my form tutor, announced we would be having something called Cycling Proficiency...

I sat there, smiling, not really understanding the full implications.

In my six or seven year old mind I assumed Cycling Proficiency was a test where they showed you some photos of vehicles, and you just had to pick out the bikes to pass. No, that's a car, no, that's an aeroplace, yep - that one's a bike... and so on.

But no. I was wrong.

A few days later when I was preparing myself for an afternoon of learning how to write about combine harvesters (still facinate me to this day, those things), Miss Facey gathered us together and took us out to the playground.

Some fucker had littered the playground with dayglo plastic cones and bean bags... And someone else had lined up all the kids bikes in a row... There was also a strange looking fella there who'd I'd never seen before, he had a clipboard and was smiling at us, the evil fucker...

"Go and get your bikes, children," said Miss Facey. "We'll start by circling the playground a few times."

Oh, FUCK!!!

I stood still while my classmates legged it to their machines, like some prepubescent Le Mans 24 Hour Race for midgets.

"Spanky, go and get your bike, dear," said Miss Facey. "We all know how much you like riding and how good you are."

Bugger...

Aaa-Haa!!! I came up with an absolutely fucking genius plan.

"Miss Facey, I don't have my bike with me," says I, beaming, just wanting to go back inside and look at my combine harvester book.

And then the strange man with the clipboard spoke up: "Don't worry, son. We've got some spare bikes. You can use one of those."

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!!!

And then it occured to me, my masterplan, my most inspired moment, a stroke of genius for which I am still incredibly proud to this very day, God, I'm so fucking clever, thought I...

In full view of the whole class, Miss Facey, and this strange fella from Cycling Proficiency...

...I pissed myself.

Starting slowly, building to a torrent, making my brown chinos turn darker brown and puddling on the playground in a stinky puddle, nice n steamy in the early afternoon sun...

Some of the girls went: "UrggghhHHHH!!!" One of the boys clapped...

And within minutes, I was back inside, looking at the fuckwits riding round in circles, while I did some much needed catch up time with my combine harvester study...

Anyone up for a threshing???
( SpankyHanky, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 9:53, 8 replies)

VIth form leaving hijinks
As you all know, well most of you at least, it has been customary for several decades now for the departing year of students to pull some nasty prank on the school. Perhaps blowing up novelty condoms and filling up a whole classroom with them, or 'waterbombing' the first years with bombs containing food colouring, carefully placing cling-film across all toilet bowls for some hilarious 'bounce back' etc!

I went to grammar school, so we were all a bit evil. However, this story is not about me! Despite my egomaniacal tendancies, I can't take credit for this. No, this is a story belonging to a friend of mine, who shares the same name as me, therefore won't be named because I don't wish to be implicated.

She went to school in Brizzle. And her year spent the whole day 'stealing' four sheep from nearby farms. They spray painted the sheep with numbers, number 1, number 3, number 4 and number 5 and then released them into the school.

Hilarity ensues! I believe the school spent a whole week searching for the illusive sheep number two. Their heads probably filled with horrifying images of the poor beast being rogered until it wept in some dank boys changing room by the freaks that the school forgot.

Sometimes I regret not having the balls to pull a prank like that. The sheep stunt made our prank of filling the staff room with blown up novelty condoms (partially filled with food colouring) pale in comparison.
(darras jeg har en grevling i hodet. Grevling, grevlang, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 9:46, 2 replies)

Death in school
I hated school. Nobody understood me; the only thing I enjoyed was art.

I was quite poorly as well most of the time, so that had a huge impact on my education, eventually being held back a year because of the schooling I’d missed.

Ever the loner with a determined streak that was me.

I had no respect for most of the teachers, well, bar the woman who taught art. In particular, I had huge problems with the bloke who taught French, he was a proper evil bastard. Everyone was scared of him, but he gave me more grief than anyone.

Still, I had the last laugh, I stole his car and then died. But not until I’d played the wheels of steel with Fresh 'n Fly.


Danny Kendal.
( JeffTheDogFucker Can you dig it?, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 9:44, 1 reply)

PE / Games (!? where's the fun?)
I have many horrific memories of PE lessons.

I'm convinced the teacher was kicked out of the Army for unnecessary aggression (as well as being a cock), there was also the dodgy one who used to peer in the showers, hence a shower was a 10 second dash to get your hair wet and thus appear to have showered.

Anyway, I recall the weather was a major factor in our PE lessons. You see the PE teacher took a bit of pride in "his" football pitch. This meant that if it was raining/snowing/hailing, far from abandon the PE lesson he was more concerned we might turn the pitch into a muddy bog. So we'd do cross country running instead.

And so we'd don our small polyester shorts and go for a 1 hour run around the perimeter of a field in sub zero wet conditions. I remain astonished nobody died of pneumonia (though one kid in the class did contract it!).

I've never worked out either the criteria by which some boys ended up playing cricket while the rest of us did more cross country running.... It's not like they sat us all down and said "who's interested in cricket, would you like to be in that group?". No, I was never asked, nor invited. Perhaps somehow it was assumed I wouldn't like it? None the less in 7 years at that school not once did I try my hand at cricket.

I suppose however as far as useful skills go, and considering the shitty area I lived in, the ability to run fast for a long period of time is no doubt more likely to benefit me than knowing how to play cricket.
(golddust QOTW now revolves around being a cunt, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 9:44, 2 replies)

Good teachings
As you probably know by now, I went to a Catholic school. It wasn't too bad and I keep a lot of good friends from there (we were together since 3 years old until 18).

It had a very good level and was one of the best in Santa Cruz and in Spain. But they sometimes went a bit too far with the teaching.

Our Latin and Spanish teacher would talk a lot about her life. Her words more than once were:

"I'm so in love with my husband. We've been married so many years, we have 3 wonderful kids and everything goes good with us. Of course, we didn't know it when we were just a young couple. At that time he was a sailor, so he had to travel a lot and spend months and months far from Tenerife. I knew he was with other women, of course, he's a man. But I knew too, that as long as I didn't have sex with him, he would marry me. So there you have, if your boyfriend needs sex, that's fine, but you don't give him your body until you are married with him"

It still makes me shiver.
(Aberracion Life's getting very complicated, but a lot of fun., Fri 30 Jan 2009, 9:40, 4 replies)