Cruel
You think kids are cruel? Bullshit. Nobody takes the piss out of kids as ruthlessly and effectively as teachers. It's all behind closed doors of course (like Groundskeeper Willy going "Ah'm Milhoose!"), but for every stupid nickname given to a teacher, they respond with one for the kids. They know the ones that smell of wee, the ones wearing pyjamas to school, the semi-autistic special cases, the spunkers who smell of fag smoke and handjobs, the fatsos and sissies, the pseudo-hardmen and needy geeks - but they've got twenty or more years and much more education, and are usually far more witty with it.

The cruellest thing I ever was privy to was when I was on a placement during my teacher training year (I left the profession some years ago). I was manfully trying to impose my will and lesson plan on an apathetic group of 14 year-olds who were wondering who the fuck I was, when there was a knock on the door. I went to answer it, and there was a young girl with livid ginger hair that looked unbrushed since birth, in a badly home-knitted jumper, with buck teeth and the coarse red cheeks which curse some gingers.

She said, "Mr Andrews asked me to give you this." She passed a note. I opened it. It said, "THIS HAS GOT TO BE THE UGLIEST KID IN THE WHOLE SCHOOL."
(McChinaman banned, Thu 8 Sep 2011, 14:12, 28 replies)

The college prankster
I was involved in several pranks etc whilst at school and college. But here is the one of the best:

It was Mark the college pranksters birthday. This guy got up to everything, if it was your birthday you avoided him like the plague and we decided to get our revenge.

He always arrived at college at 8.30am and made for the common room. 10 of us decided to make sure we were in before this and waiting in the common room for him. Our sixth form common room was in the oldest part of our college. Huge doors, solid frames etc. and we'd discovered that you could lift the door off it's hinges. So we're there at 8.25, door off it's hinges and balanced over a couple of chairs and several roles of gaffa tape. Mark arrives and is immediately grabbed and gaffa taped to the door and the door is rehung with him hanging about 6 inches off the floor.

We decide to leave him there until after the first lesson of the day and I got tasked to stay there (as I had a free period) to make sure no one let him down.

9.05. Mark still hanging from door (and no longer seeing the funny side). Noises are coming from the corridor and getting closer. The door opens slowly and one of the maths teachers walks in, they never came in the common room. As the only person in there (other than the prankster on the door) I think I'm in for a bollocking. The teacher walks in and turns and looked at the door, the next words made me nearly cry with joy.

Teacher: "Morning Mark. Got told you were here. Happy Birthday. I didn't want you to miss your class so I thought we'd have the lesson here."

In walk the other 20 members of Mark's stats class.

I had to sit through a boring stats lesson for an hour but it was definitely worth it.

Apologies for the length but he was up there for two hours.
(bdm should really be doing some work on, Fri 9 Sep 2011, 13:32, 8 replies)

It's a pearoast but.....
It has to be the naughtiest thing I've ever done in school.

Not last winter but the one before I was teaching year 1 (5-6 year olds) My classroom was right by the playground and we has our own door out on to it.

Halfway through the afternoon's lesson the sky started to turn grey and eventually it quietly started to snow. The children we so busy working that they didn't notice. It had actually got quite thick on the ground before one boy looked up and shouted 'it's snowing'.
We stopped for a minute and looked at the snow before I encouraged them to carry on.
But now they were distracted, this was the first time we had had snow since the previous year and when you are 5 a year is a lifetime ago. There were general mutterings of snowball fights and toboggans.

I knew it was over, I was fighting a losing battle.

"Right, everyone put their pencils down" I said sounding angry, "this is not good enough there is too much talking going on. You are excited by the snow and so am I. Get your coats on we are going outside."

We came back in about 45 minutes later when it was home time.
( Mrs Entity is in hiding., Sat 10 Sep 2011, 23:32, 6 replies)

Backwards writing
My old science teacher used to always lean against the same desk, in exactly the same place, at the back of the class.

Me and my mate Peter had the idea of backwards writing in thick chalk on the edge of the desk that he would lean on, and we could not have hoped for it to work as well as it did, so every week for three years we managed to get a message printed onto his arse, starting with mature things like "I'm gay" or "I lilke little boys" but moving towards self referential "I am a message on your bum" to serialised "you will never catch us", over a five week period.

On our last day, Peter, me and a later recruit Vikesh confessed all and to be fair to him, he shook us by the hand and said he had taken it in good fun, but had had no idea how the fuck kids had managed to write on his arse without him noticing.
(clinteastwoodbradfield, Thu 8 Sep 2011, 21:45, Reply)

RE
We had an RE teacher. I don't know whether he'd really, seriously taken to heart the idea about turning the other cheek, but a class under his - well, I'd hesitate to call it control, more like gentle guidance and advice from the sidelines, really - could get away with anything.

So we locked him in his supply cupboard. Repeatedly. Stealing the keys, jamming a chair under the door, moving a bookshelf - it didn't matter what, gathering textbooks or important RE supplies was a voyage into peril for the hapless "sir".

For some reason he didn't seem to mind this. Maybe he just assumed being locked in the supply cupboard once or twice a lesson was an unavoidable consequence of being an RE teacher. Occasionally if we'd locked him in there for a particularly long time he might make us copy from a textbook for a bit rather than have a "fun" lesson, but I think of all the people I've known to be locked in cupboards his was the calmest acceptance of his plight.

Now, maybe there was some latent kind-heartedness in all of us evil pupils, because for our last lesson with him, knowing we'd most likely get a normal teacher next year, one who'd tell us off and that, one who might treat a session in the supply cupboard as instant class detention, we clubbed together to buy the shirt of his favourite football team; Brighton & Hove Albion.

To show his gratitude, he wanted to put it on. But it wouldn't really fit over his shirt and suit jacket. But that didn't matter, because his class offered the perfect solution.

"Why don't you go in the supply cupboard and get changed, sir?"
(Timberwolf, Thu 8 Sep 2011, 22:43, Reply)

When I was in Junior School we used to have to file into assembly to classical music and in the last year a rota was run to delegate the privilege of setting up the teachers chairs which were metal framed with a canvas seat and back.

Even as a 8 year old I had a very accute sense of justice and felt that the chiding I had received from Mrs Lee, Head Teacher and professional fat ass, for doing handstands, was completely unjust.

As I and a few others dragged chairs across the parquet flooring of the gym, I thought about how much I hated Mrs Lee and wanted to give her a chinese burn. I lifted a chair from the stack and noticed that it had a long rip in the middle and was quite frayed around the edges. A plan began to formulate....

I put it front and centre where Mrs Lee would usually sit and lent on the canvas with my elbow, I heard a faint tearing noise and the plan was crystalised. I would let Mrs Lee do the rest.

Soon the time came for us to march into assembly to Tchaikovsky's 1810 Overture and with bated breath I waited for the music to stop and for us to be seated. Mrs Lee started her monologue but I didn't hear it, I was waiting for the moment and then it finally came.

She sat.

The canvas gave way and she plunged arse first through the metal frame, arms and legs waving frantically as the skirt she was wearing colourfully framed her dimpled hairy thighs and greying pants. 200 7-11 year olds and a few teachers giggled hysterically as two male members of staff reluctantly came to Mrs Lee's rescue and removed her from the fram by bracing one leg on the chair and pulling her out by her arms.

In my mind, I hear her POP as she is freed.
(GirlOfTheWorld, Fri 9 Sep 2011, 11:01, Reply)

First post from a disgusting little boy.
This is not classically naughty behaviour per se, but the incident was sufficiently shame filled enough to ruin my last year at Secondary School, so here goes.

The year is 1984. I am 15, and bumbling along at school, suitably aided by my best friend/shadow Dominic. We were both fairly intelligent kids, but quite breathtakingly unfocused, and so had made it to fourth year without anything remotely resembling an academic achievement between us.

By this time, most of the teachers had pegged us as a bad influence on each other, and had separated us in any classes we took together. Only one teacher, our student English teacher, had allowed us to remain seated together during her lessons. It was during this period that our creative naughtiness was allowed its oxygen.

I can’t remember who had thought of it first, but at some point during one of these lessons we had decided that what we really needed, what our lives would not be complete without, was a chart detailing every female teachers vagina, as imagined in our fevered adolescent minds. It was a silly throwaway idea that gathered momentum as soon as we started writing things down.

The basic idea was that we would compile a full list of female teachers. Alongside each name there would be a description of said fanny, what it might feel like, etc. Furthermore, there would be an accompanying drawing. This would provide visual evidence of neatness, and hair mass. The problem for me was that this was all being done in the back of an exercise book I had for rough work. In itself, this is not that much of an issue, the book was never handed in for marking, and we only ever work on it during that one lesson we’re together. A lesson being conducted by the only teacher who had never separated us, and who was far more tolerant of us being dicks in the classroom.

My downfall came during another lesson. Not any other lesson either, but the only lesson on my timetable whereby I was the only boy. Somehow, the book had managed to find it’s way out of my bag and onto the floor. It was subsequently picked up by one of the girls in the class who proceeded to flick through it. It was one of those exquisite moments whereby reality itself seems to be shattering into a billion pieces, right before your own disbelieving eyes.

We’ve all seen the textbook with the big spunking cock in it, but Dominic and I had elevated that into another dimension with our Encyclopaedia Flangica. Eventually the giggling started followed by the passing of the book from one girl to another. By this time my mind had almost snapped. The reality of the situation had to my mind long since slipped out of the back door and fucked off.

The book eventually found its way into the hands of my teacher. She looked at the offending pages and put the book back on my desk.
‘You really are a disgusting little boy’, she says, and walks back to her desk at the front. I’d have preferred a major league bollocking to be honest. This kind of withering dismissal was not what I’d wanted or expected. It had made me the laughing stock of the school, and due to Dominic moving away had made me endure the Fifth year entirely alone. Needless to say, the female teachers were a little reluctant to deal with me as well. Whether that was because I’d hit the nail on the head or not I’ll never know.
(Ovon Bort Wondering why he chose this username, since 1999, Mon 12 Sep 2011, 15:43, 5 replies)

Horseing Around
In Sixth Form, one of the school Golden Boys (Prefect, Rugby Team, all that) had painted a very detailed picture of a horse in a field for art class. It had teachers and pupils alike cooing, but I strongly suspected he had copied it off a biscuit tin.

When briefly left alone in the art room with his work my natural response was the same as most schoolboys'. Draw a cock it. Biro outline, human in form but placed in an anatomically correct position. As you can probably tell, I was (and still am) a bit of a Vincent Van Cock and well known for leaving a trail of cockandballs behind me.

The second I had finished the last pube, I realised what I had done and knew it would be instantly obvious who was the culprit, and being in pen it couldn't be erased. There was only one course of action to get away with it...

I signed it.

That's right. I actually signed it. In bold letters. Right beside the offending todge I wrote "by Gary" (for that is my name).

Later on, when the guy turned up for the actual art class he greeted his work with the predicted, horrified reaction. Everyone gathered around him to see what was wrong, laughed and then they all turned to me to see how I was reacting to this near certain confrontation.

Then Golden Boy turned to the assembled group and said "Which one of you twats did this?" They all looked confused, gesturing to me, the obvious vandal. I looked at them as though I had no idea why they were pointing at me.

"No, it's not HIM" our horse-lover continued "Which one of you lot was trying to get him in trouble? He'd never sign his own name"

So I got away with the ultimate speedcock and even managed to leave an autograph.
(kingnutter, Fri 9 Sep 2011, 15:55, Reply)

It took months for the smell to go away
I'm sorry for this confession.

In hindsight I should have known better but I honestly didn't know this would happen.

I hate seagulls. We didn't even live near the sea. Yet the little buggers were always nicking any food they could out on school playground and being a menace.

Naturally we had to line up each morning outside before being taken inside for registration etc. Of 180 kids who was the 1 who got crapped on by a seagull before morning registration??? Yep, it was me.

I got laughed at and felt humiliated. Revenge would be mine.

We were learning a lot in chemistry, including the wonderful reactions of alkaline metals. Sodium being my favourite due to the large firey reaction with water.

The science classrooms were left empty between lessons as the teachers regularly moved onto to other rooms etc. So I hatched a plan.

I "procured" a bit of sodium one quiet day, not much just about the size of a small rubber, certainly smaller than a box of matches.

I then mixed this up with bread I'd torn into chunky breadcrumbs....

When I hurled it out onto the playground the seagulls swarmed and a handful scoffed the potent treat quickly... then they began to make noise.... a lot of noise. A few flew away onto the closest roof and then got REALLY noisy. One never made it off the ground.... the result I witnessed at ground level still haunts me. The best description I can give is that he "popped". It was almost like a stick of dynamite had gone off inside the seagull and his guts were strewn on the tarmac.

For months the smell of seagull guts wafted from the flat roof above until enough rain had fallen to wash it away.

Seagulls - they're bastards but they're not suitable for chemical experiments.
(golddust QOTW now revolves around being a cunt, Thu 8 Sep 2011, 13:41, 8 replies)

Balls-eye
It was in CDT (Craft, Design and Technology I think) that due to a very welcome lack of teacher supervision my friend Davey and I constructed our best weapons. On one occasion for me, this took the form of a throwing knife and for Davey, an elastic band crossbow.

We were itching to try our new weapons out but first we had to sit through English. The class was taking it in turns to read from a book and at one point it was the turn of class victim, Matthew, who was sitting opposite at our group of desks. Davey nudged me and indicated that he was holding his crossbow under the desk, elastic band pulled taught and loaded with a menacing looking, tightly folded paper projectile. He aim it under the desk at Matthews genitals and fired it when he was mid sentance. Matthew said something to the effect of:

"Then the horse bLLLAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGHHHHHH!!!!......."

The whole class looked at eachother in astonishment and puzzlement as Matthew went red in the face and tried to start reading again. Except for the two of us who were crying, trying not to laugh.
(ginger love muscle, Fri 9 Sep 2011, 0:13, 2 replies)

Countdown
I was in the sixth-form and it was a grey and miserable lunchtime. The hammering rain prevented us having a kickabout or wandering into the village to annoy the Newsagent by breaking his "Two schoolchildren at a time on these premises" rule so we were sat around in the common room, bored and bemoaning the fact that the radio didn't have a tape player.

Within the common room was a smaller room called 'The Library'. It contained reference materials, textbooks and, pointedly, prospectuses for pretty much every university and further learning establishment in the country. These prospectuses (prospectii?) were all squeezed into free-standing files. Aberystwyth and Aberdeen in a file with a big 'A' on the front, Bradford and Birmingham in 'B' and so on right through the alphabet with much duplication of certain letters. These were all arranged in alphabetical order along two very long shelves.

Boredom can do funny things to your brains and I suddenly realised we had all the ingredients required for a game of Countdown. We got Dan to be Richard Whiteley (as he was the token speccy kid). Carol played Carol (because she was called Carol) and we put the head boy and girl together with a dictionary in the corner. They were Dictionary Corner. The rest of us (around a dozen) split into two teams. All the prospectuses were taken off the shelf and arranged into vowels and consonants, the outward facing sides (with the letters on) turned away from Carol to add a soupcant of dignity and randomness to the letters being chosen.

And so it came to pass that the grey, rainy lunch break flew by in splendid fashion. 15 or so of us laughing our acne off playing a typically rude version of the nation's favourite parlour game. Aces. So much fun, in fact, that the bell going for afternoon registration caught us all off-guard. Most legged it immediately. One or two tried half-heartedly to put everything back in a semblance of order before deserting also; Carol, last to leave other than me, saying "It was your idea, you put it all back."

Bastards. I was late getting back for registration, almost missing it completely - and Mr. Calder tore a strip off me for bad timekeeping.

But that wasn't the worst of it. My next lesson (double Computer Studies) was interrupted by a young lad knocking the door and instructing my teacher that Mrs. Grant (head of sixth form) wanted to see me immediately.

Balls. Off I trotted to her office. She wasn't known for her good humour, Mrs Grant, and when I went in she had a face like a puce harpy.

"I'm not going to waste your time or mine, Mr. Jimlad; Becky Brooks and Jennifer White have told me exactly what happened and who the culprit is."

"But I..."

"BE QUIET YOU SILLY LITTLE MAN! I have already phoned your parents, informed them what has taken place and told them to expect you home early. You are not welcome to return to this school for a period of two weeks, whereupon I hope you'll have had sufficient time to think about your actions."

And that's how I came to be suspended from school for re-arranging the university-prospectus boxes so that they read...

CAROL VORDERMANS SPUNKY TITS

I didn't have time to put them all back alphabetically so I'd improvised. Fairplay to my dad, he laughed his arse off when I told him why I'd been suspended.
(R. Jimlad twitter.com/sirmarkymark, Thu 8 Sep 2011, 18:17, 2 replies)

I may have mentioned this before...
One of the cute little things we were shown in Chemistry class was that if you dissolve iodine crystals in ammonia and paint the resultant stuff on a surface and let it dry, it becomes an extremely sensitive contact explosive. The best part is that it makes everything in the immediate vicinity purple.

We swiped the iodine crystals and anhydrous ammonia, made a fair bit of the stuff, then painted it on the undersides of the toilet seats in the girls' bathrooms.

During gym class we were easily able to identify our victims by their purple thighs...
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 8 Sep 2011, 14:15, Reply)

Not a brown labrador in sight...... (pearost)
I must have been 10ish (the time Sean Connery likes to go to Wimbledon). I detested school with a vengeance. Hard to believe now, but I was The School Swot, always coming top in my year group, if not the school for French, English & science, winning prizes left right & Chelsea in the process.

Not only was I an uber-swot, I came from The Posh Estate. Meaning it was the only private estate in teh pit village (it was a Leech house). The rest consisted of council estates and pit houses. Nothing wrong with that; however, my peers' other prerequisite was the total lack of the ability to breathe nasally.

Therefore, Young Tourettes was ostracised at best, ruthlessly bullied at worst. The only relevance of which was my constant insatiable search for excuses to stay off school. Tonsillitis was good; glandular fever was even better (that got me out of P.E. for 6 months to boot!). Genuine childhood ailments, followed by a long spell of good health. Meh!

Then I played a blinder. Literally.....

From whence the inspiration came, I have no idea. I was forever daydreaming, allowing my eyes to drift off out of focus; leaving the Real World far behind and choosing to spend the majority of time in my own Special World. I was doing this one morning as I descended the stairs. Half way down, a half-baked plan came to me. Leave the eyes out of focus and pretend to be blind!

Fuck me all ways, my folks fell for it. I scored 4 or 5 months off school! (Wouldn’t happen nowadays, oh no, I’d be packed off with Extra Visual Support. But this was the 70’s.) My mother helped me to dress, cut my food up (chips at 3 o’clock, Spam at 8 o’clock, fried egg at 12. “Where’s the Ketchup, Mam?”
“Eeh, sorry pet, it’s at 6 o’clock”).


I was duly taken to *see* the GP, who referred me to an eye specialist in Newcastle. Of course, he couldn’t find anything amiss and suggested I visit an optician. Throughout the exam, I kept up my Oscar-winning performance. However, when the optician started putting different lenses in the frames, a potential problem hit me. If I came away with fuck-off jam jar specs that really would cattle my eyes. So in my 10-year-old wisdom, I decided to say the “weaker” lenses helped. 15 minutes later, I thought I’d been rumbled. The optician told my mother all the lenses he’d inserted had been clear glass! Stinky Poo! How was I going to wriggle out of this? He turned to my mother in all seriousness and said, “Your daughter has nothing physical wrong with her sight. Her blindness is psychosomatic. Can you think of any possible triggers or causes?”
She thought for a moment then proclaimed, “Yes! She read that Shiela Hocken book, “Emma and I” – she was really moved by the story and empathised hugely with the blind lady!”
“That’d do it”, replied the nice optician.

And lo, I had another few weeks off school, while my eyesight *gradually returned*…….

Little fuck-sock that I was.
( Tourette's ( . )( . ) has a monkey hair in her fried egg, Tue 13 Sep 2011, 19:11, 2 replies)

It was the end of
the 5th year, or as it had recently been rebranded, year 11. I was sitting in my physics class, and we were being bade farewell by our teacher, who for the purpose of this story I will refer to as The Prof.

I quite liked the prof. He was amiable enough but by the same token didn't take any shit, canny, slightly frosty, academic. He was at that indeterminate age all non-really old and non-really young teachers have. Around this time he first become a father. He was built like a rake and had a noticable stutter.

The Prof likewise quite liked my class, and he gave a little speech in our last lesson before we broke up for study leave, did our GCSEs and left school for sixth form college forever. To mark the occasion he chose to regale us with a story from the infancy of his career, around 18 months after he had qualified, which he rarely told.

His first post had been in a reasonable comprehensive much like ours, but being the newbie he tended to draw the short straw on all the lousy jobs. He liked our class because we were a top set, and he liked teaching top sets. The short straw, the job he hated most , was taking the remedial class. It seems the staff at his first school felt likewise. Being the newbie, he had been given the remedial class.

It didn't start auspiciously. He handed out fresh exercise books and told them to put their name and form on the front. At the end of the class he took the books back. The class weren't allowed to take them home as they would lose them. Half-a-dozen had spelt their name wrong.

He toiled with them till the end of the year. It was a general science class, so the prof didn't even get to specialise in physics. He found the class frustrating because they didn't learn anything, he just endlessly repeated the basics. At the end of the year, for the wont of doing something memorable with this class, he decided to give them something all kids like, no matter how dumb. An explosion.

The classroom had a fume cupboard at the back. Into it he put a clamp and stand and a perspex beaker. He then rigged up a pully system. It had a rope that ran under the door of the fume cupboard, round a hitch on the ceiling and hung above the beaker. The other end ran to the other side of the room and was tied off on a gas tap.

The class arrived, and he announced a treat. They clapped like retarded seals. Hydrochloric acid comes in large bottles and is diluted by technicians before being given to students. The neat acid has the viscosity of syrup. He half-filled the beaker with acid-syrup. He then found the largest lump of sodium he could find and tied it to the pully rope, above the beaker, loosely balanced on the clamp. He shut the door, turned on the extractor, and move the class to the back of the room.

He released the rope. It ran over the pully and the sodium dropped into the acid.

Nothing happened.

The prof was bemused. There should have been a bright, sparkly chemical reaction to impress the thickie children. There wasn't. The prof took a few steps towards the fume cupboard.

Then air pressure, a bang, boom, crash, a smell like bleach, an alarm going off. An explosion.

The beaker was gone. The clamp-stand had been bent into a "C" shape. The windows of the fume cupboard had bowed outwards. They had shattered but kept the glass as they were laced with wire. There were sparks and glows from where the beaker had stood as the last fragments of sodium reacted. The was the hint of a small fire. A layer of smoke lay across the ceiling.

One of the children asked if he could do it again. The building was evacuated.

The prof has no idea how he avoided the sack. He was censured and put on a final warning. So much as a fart out of place and he would be shown the door. He never did it again.

As the school was short on space, they cordoned the area around the fume cupboard off and had classes at the other end of the room. Not all the acid had reacted and had evaporated, and it slowly condensed on the inside of the shattered windows. Over the course of an hour class there would be half-a-dozen skittering tinkles as it chewed through the wire and allowed a fragment of glass to escape onto the floor.
(cs1ca, Sat 10 Sep 2011, 21:32, 3 replies)

Because we all clearly believe every word of penrose's story below...
_{Sorry, one day I'll come up with a good story instead of pearoasting all my old ones. Any allusions to truth in the following are grossly misrepresented:}

Was but a boy of seventeen,
Still innocent, and still so keen,
The physics that this teacher taught,
The laws revealed, equations wrought,
The scientific method made,
The new altar at which we prayed,
The woman with the deep dark eyes,
With short brown hair and full, firm thighs,
In someone twice as old as me,
An unexpected fantasy,
I told myself this was not right,
...but why I else did I think about physics each night?

Yet one day as the class did go,
She asked, "Do stay a moment, Crow,
She smiled and said "No need to fear,
Why, no one even knows we're here."
I pondered every variable,
If we were caught, there'd be such trouble,
Such thoughts flashed by in but a second,
As her experienced lips a-beckoned,
Common sense could not prevail,
My variable resistance failed.

She climbed on me and made to straddle,
I stroked the contours, found the saddle
point between those buttocks firm,
And probing fingers made her squirm.
In a quantum of uncertainty,
Clothes disappeared quite rapidly.
Her eyes lit up as she disrobed,
My swollen, sweating, young Hall Probe.
I begged, "the pressure is too great,
"I'm going to...supersaturate..."
She smiled, "Well, let's relieve that first,"
Opened her mouth and let me burst,
And swallowed then so artfully,
My column's potential vorticity.

She did not gag, she did not gurn,
But kissed my neck and said "Your turn,"
And begged that I should use on her,
My huge interferometer.

And so I found myself a-rising,
Beyond her moist event horizon,
Trapped inside so tight a hold,
By the pull of this black hole.
She goaded me and cried for more,
As she enticed me to explore,
And find within this no-pants dance,
A frequency of resonance.
Our sinusoidal oscillations,
Hurried on a strong sensation,
Wishing it would not be over,
But soon this mass went supernova,
And with a gasp, she seemed to lift
Up on my violent Doppler shift.

And the woman with the deep dark eyes,
With short brown hair and full, firm thighs,
This psiren, twice as old as me,
My unexpected fantasy,
Just caught her breath in time to say,
"Why can't they make all men this way?"

...Well, how else do you think I got an 'A'?
(LongJohnBaldry, Thu 8 Sep 2011, 15:22, 3 replies)

Pass out for fun
I have no idea if what I'm about to describe was unique to our school, but I'll tell the tale anyway.

4th year at secondary school and a craze starts to sweep the playground.

Apparently if you hold your breath for 20 seconds and then have one of your best mates push hard against your chest, you pass out. Your mates are responsible for catching you before you hit the ground and much hilarity ensues when you wake up after a few seconds. Just typing this it sounds utterly bonkers, but that's kids for you I guess.

One of the kids in our class called Richard was very fond of this pastime. He was doing it constantly to the point where he was able to pass out without the need for the pressure on his chest (he sort of held his breath, tensed himself up and went out like a light).

We decided to test his new-found power on one of the more fragile members of the teaching staff. She was french, taught french and had the nickname "Biddy' because to us she looked about 80. The general thinking was that she a bit senile.

In the middle of Biddy's class, she's going round the group asking pupils to translate different words. Just before she gets to Richard, he works his magic and passes out, falling off the chair onto a strategically placed rucksack.

Biddy freaked out and rushed to get help. Seconds later Richard was back with us looking fine and dandy.

I'll never forget the look on poor Biddy's face when she returned minutes later with the deputy head and the first aid kit to find our Richard sat in his chair copying work from the board.

The whole class denied he'd passed out of course, leaving Biddy struggling to explain why she'd lost the plot so spectacularly.

I'm not proud of some of the things we did to teachers, but when kids smell weakness you've lost it.
(BinDipper, Thu 8 Sep 2011, 14:16, 2 replies)

Wankmat
One day in maths class when we were about 14 someone wrote "wankmat" on another lad's text book whilst he looked the other way and we watched, trying to stifle our lulz, to see how long he would notice.

He spotted it shortly afterwards, called the other lad gay and gave him a series of ruddy good punches on the arm until it went dead. Such was tradition.

After that it kind of spiralled into a game of tag. Whoever was wankmatted had to then write wankmat on someone else's work without them noticing. Usual targets were homework and essays that had to be handed in that lesson. Bonus points for wankmat being written on the page more than once without them noticing, super extra mega bonus points for them actually handing the work in without noticing.

This game carried on well into sixth form with us all regularly handing in work covered with tipex to obscure the obscenities.

I think the worst/best it got was in one lesson my mate Nick managed to achieve an octuple wankmatting on my work before I noticed. Luckily it was mostly margin work, but I still got a bollocking for handing in an essay so covered in tipex it looked like a biscuit in an all boy's public boarding school.

Next day I had my revenge after spending a good ten minutes inking wankmat backwards onto my eraser then when he was otherwise distracted i stamped as fast as I could leaving about 20-30 wankmats all over his homework. Swagger.
( Draconacticus Reject shampoo. Demand real poo!, Thu 8 Sep 2011, 14:03, Reply)

I dreaded PhysEd because I had a small cock and it was horrible being in the showers afterwards where the other girls all pointed and giggled.
( enoughblueskyforsailorstrousers, Wed 14 Sep 2011, 10:17, 1 reply)

Our head of physics
could be a real moody old bint. Not all the time, mind you, but when a certain time of month rolled round, none of us tried our usual tricks. One particular afternoon, our usually punctual teacher was late, and so we let ourselves into the lecture theatre and began to celebrate.

Lunches were eaten, one lad had a trumpet that he started playing and a friend of mine was using the lecture-computer to play microsoft pinball, broadcast via a projector onto the wall behind him. The room was new-ish and had been converted from one which had, many years previously, contained a darkroom for film development. This was now used as a large cupboard at the back of the room, and two of the crazier students - Daniel and Michael - decided to explore it.

No sooner had they entered the cupboard than the teacher burst in, red-faced, eyes bulging, and immediately started screaming bloody murder at how we weren't studying already. The food disappeared, as did the trumpet and 9 foot high pinball projection - thankfully she seemed to stressed to have noticed those - but as we began to copy down what she now wrote on the computer, it became quite obvious that 2 of our number were missing. Minutes passed slowly, and as we all wondered what their plan of escape was, Daniel casually opened the door and walked out.

The teacher flipped her lid. He began to give an explanation about his pen rolling under the door, but was drowned out by her swearing and threats of castration. Eventually she calmed down enough to demand he see her afterwards so she could remove most of his internal organs, or words to that effect. As she said this, she went over to the cupboard door, didn't see Michael about to leave, and slammed it shut.

We had been intrigued before, but now the tension was almost too much to bear. He couldn't possibly leave, that would be suicide, sh'd rip his heart out of his chest! There is no excuse he could say, nothing that could make the situation any better or worse. And - just after we had, in hushed whispers, agreed he was probably going to stay in there for the whole lesson, the door flew open. Michael launched himself out of the cupboard, and - addressing the class at the top of his lungs - cried "YOU LIED! THERES NO SECRET DOOR TO NARNIA!" We all laughed and burst into applause, before turning to see how well our teacher had taken it.

To this day I have never seen a human being turn such a deep shade of purple in such a short space of time.
(Azrepheal Just cos Im pure evil, doesnt make me a bad person, Sun 11 Sep 2011, 22:52, 3 replies)

The naughtiest thing a builder ever did at our school
This is all a bit second-hand, but it's my favourite story since I started this miserable teaching job. Sadly, I wasn't there, but it's too good not to be true.

A couple of years ago our school let go a ginger kid. We'll call him Shaun. I'd had the unfortunate luck to have to teach him for all five years of his school career, and thanked all known Gods that he'd actually managed to get a C at GCSE Science, thereby making me look reasonably competent. He was a cocky little so-and-so, full of bullshit, mouth like the Mersey Tunnel; a likeable lad for all that, but still a royal pain in the arse.

My best mate Gavin, head of History, also got saddled with him for GCSEs, and took his class on a trip, ostensibly to see the history of a nearby town. This trip started in the corner of a car park, and being the prudent teacher, Gavin asked if any of the kids needed to use the public toilets before setting off on their little walking tour.

Of course Shaun was the only one who wanted to go. So after he'd strutted off flicking oblique winks at his friend in acknowledgement of his wasting class time, Gavin made sure to prep the rest of the class to wind him up a bit. So he encourages everyone to give Shaun a round of applause and a cheer when he emerges from the Gents.

What he hadn't banked upon was the small crowd of builders who entered the Gents just after Shaun.

Shaun exits the toilets.

Gavin and the rest of the class applaud enthusiastically.

Very large builder with muscles like ham hocks exits right behind Shaun

Builder realises the applause is directed towards Shaun (thankfully) and bellows at the top of his voice: "He's got a tiny dick, you know!"

Shaun's face turns redder than his absurd hair and he remains remarkably quiet for the rest of the trip. Gavin has five minutes of private hysterics on the minibus under the guise of 'looking for his wallet'.

Length? Not terribly much, apparently...
( ousgg is not seeking approval, Sat 10 Sep 2011, 23:36, 2 replies)

Picture the scene
It's Halloween and my primary school class is having a spooky-themed lesson. I'm six years old and I'm scared of ghosts, so my mother has taught me the old rhyme to ward them off:

"From Ghoulies and Ghosties
and Long-leggity beasties
and things that go bump in the night -
Good Lord, deliver us"

And that is why, when she was making a list on the blackboard of scary things, I announced to Miss O'Halloran that one of the things I was most frightened of was Goolies.

The resulting uproar meant that I ended the day outside the Headmaster's office feeling deeply puzzled and rather hard done by.
(richardm, Fri 9 Sep 2011, 16:14, Reply)

Harmless fun...
I did many things at College, and was even busted for a few of them. I managed to get kicked out in the end, but that, believe it or not, is a pretty boring story in itself.

One of my favourite memories was when I was skiving off one afternoon. I called a mate of mine who had a free period to grab a lift home. He answered his phone but was already half-way to town, so I thought there was little chance of him coming back.

A bit of background here - the school I went to is private and about 160 years old, with all the attendant gothic architecture and pretentious attitudes that go along with that type of establishment. It is also boys only. The local girls private school had recently moved to the College's old boarding house, just up the road. We had various shared facilities, including one of our sports fields.

On this day, as Tom and Michael came back to pick me up, we noticed that the girls college had started lining up on the shared sports field for their annual school photo. This, apparently, had garnered his attention and ideas were bubbling. We nipped fairly sharpish into town, to the nearest fancy-dress shop where we proceeded to purchase large, hairy, monkey outfits and inflatable mallets. Tom drove us back up to college, with Michael and I getting changed in the car.

We arrived back up the hill (our school was at the top of a hill) and jumped out of the car just as the last of the girls school lined up on the specially erected grandstand, ran onto the football field and proceeded to beat the shit out of each other in monkey costumes in front of, and totally disrupting the mass photograph of, 600 girls - now cheering us at the top of their voices.

I know it's not exactly the most horrific of things that will be shared this week, but it was definitely one of the most enjoyable pranks that I've participated in.
( Hunter Stockton was murdered by a bicycle wielding axolotl,.,.,.,., Thu 8 Sep 2011, 17:27, 3 replies)

I was boring
at school and never got in much trouble. One of my older brothers hated school right from the get go though, and continued to cause trouble right through his school days, culminating in him getting caught phoning in a bomb threat to our secondary school, from a phone box (remember them!) and forgetting that his reputation and his voice would make him easy to recognize.
ANYWAY...His naughtiness started in primary, as my dear old lovely mum has just reminded me.
He hated school dinners, so much so that he got my 'mum' to write a letter to the then head teacher Mr.Fishwick to excuse him from at least the awful dessert.
It read... (on Paddington Bear note paper)
Dear Mr.Fishwuck,
I do not want custid anymore
from
Daves mum.

She swears she has it safe somewhere, and has just been in tears of laughter telling me about having to go to the school to talk to Mr.Fishwuck about it. I want to frame it and give it to him for his 50th.
( Herb Alpert's Taxi Driver I have very beautiful lips, Mon 12 Sep 2011, 0:20, Reply)

Teachers' birthdays generally aren't publicised to their kids, and for good reason. However one time a couple of lads in my form found out when our form tutor's birthday was and decided to give him a surprise present. During the lunch break they got a load of silly string, toilet roll, tin cans and the like and decorated his car with them. When it came to afternoon registration our tutor took us all up to the staff car park and showed us what they'd done so we could have a good laugh. It was only then that he pointed out they'd got the wrong car.
(mhoulden, Sun 11 Sep 2011, 0:29, Reply)

Remembered another one...sorry...
I'm a teacher. Don't hate me. Sat with my mate the school librarian eating our sandwiches keeping an eye on the empty library through the one way glass window. Small boy aged about 11 enters the library, furtively looks around, unzips his fly and proceeds to walk along the rows of books wiping his penis along the spines. Zips up, throws rucksack over shoulder and is gone before I have chance to put down my pasty and apprehend him.
(DubstepBetty Down wiv der kids since 1972, Fri 9 Sep 2011, 1:52, 10 replies)

Our head of sixth form was great
He spotted a group of us sneaking off across the fields to the pub to avoid the end of school assembly. "WHERE ARE YOU LOT GOING?" he bellowed. "The pub, sir" we replied. "WELL GET ON WITH IT THEN AND STOP CLUTTERING UP THE FIELD".
( MatJ LOOK, Fri 9 Sep 2011, 1:23, Reply)

I didn't do it... but I WAS THERE
Our school was built in the 1930s, and as such the architects saw absolutely no problem with having the opening to the loft space in the boys toilets. No well-behaved home counties student would even consider bunking off lessons, running amok above the classrooms below, would they? Of course not.

The only disadvantage was that the loft ran above the language labs, where silence, and the odd muttered "Ach du liebe Gott!" and "Pompt-de-pompt-de-lu-lu" were all that could be heard from the huddled masses, trying not to stare too hard at Madame Talbot's norks. You'd have thought those who had discovered this gold-plated skiving opportunity would not do anything to draw attention to themselves, perhaps using it as some sort of secret den, where cigarettes and pornography could be exchanged as a Rite of Passage.

It started with a distant thudding. Thudding that got nearer and more disconcerting as we tried not to stare too hard at Madame Talbot's norks. The thudding, mixed now with shouts and cries of "Wanker!" got closer and closer, and soon they were overhead. Madame Talbot stopped trying to get us to ecoutez-et-repetez and looked up with a worried look on her face. Confused, we stared at Madame Talbot's norks.

BOMF! A leg appeared through the plasterboard ceiling. Then another. There was a cry of "Oh fuck!", which drew a certain amount of displeasure amongst us, as this was clearly a French lesson where Anglais was strictly interdit, and the startled figure of Sid Brandon plummeted from the ceiling, landing on his back on Madame Talbot's desk.

Sid lay there a minute, stunned; as Madame Talbot crossed and uncrossed her arms, causing twenty schoolboys to let out sighs of relief.

"Sorry miss."

Plasterboard, cobwebs and years of dust fell from the great yawning cavity, while his partners in crime - who clearly should have been in a Portakabin somewhere learning the complexities of CSE Money Management and crayon usage - stared down at him and called him a cunt. Which was fair enough, really.

"Right, I'll be off then," he said as if he had every right to be there, jumping to his feet, and fleeing the scene.

The game was up. A hit squad led by Mr Ponting the caretaker and the collected might of the PE department raided the forbidden loft space, and the offenders were convicted at an assembly show-trial the following morning in front of the tutting local vicar; their booze, porn and smokes on a table as the most damning of evidence. But those Jumanji drums kept on beating... "Hey! There's a loft opening here. And it's unlocked..."

Full 12-inch remix version of this Tale of Mirth and Woe can be found HERE
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Thu 8 Sep 2011, 13:13, Reply)

I may as well start with this again, even though I only told it in the Trolling QOTW recently:
My Chemistry teacher, no matter how much he would have denied it, had an uncanny resemblance to Postman Pat. My friends with elder siblings had been warned that on no account was this to be mentioned, the irrational explosion of terrifying anger that would ensue was not worth the risk. Obviously this was like a red rag flying cat to an autism bull, but being scared little first years none of us were brave enough to outright say anything. Instead, we embarked on what with hindsight I can now see as a monumental effort of group trolling. It started small, little snippets of conversation as he walked past desks. "Did you see Grange Hill last night?", "No, my little brother had his Postman Pat video on", then vague hummings of the theme tune or odd references to 'Have you seen Jess?', Questions - 'Sir, how does the sticky stuff on the back of a stamp work?'. You could almost see the paranoia and twitch in his eye develop as the lessons passed.

Waiting outside at the start of class "it's like pension day at the Post Office'. Bad jokes that didn't even make sense "Knock Knock, Who's There? The Postman? The Postman who? 'The Postman always knocks twice" (Not that any of us would have seen the film, I'm sure, but we'd heard of it).

And then someone turned up to class with a Postman Pat Pencil Box and a whole new level of warfare was opened, we spent our lunch money on Postman Pat rulers, Pens, Rubbers, Pencil Sharpeners, Lunch boxes, a couple of people started bringing in younger siblings Postman Pat satchel's with their books in. And then, finally, in a moment of genius that turned us from irritants to flat out bullies someone bought in about 50 sheets of Postman Pat wrapping paper and each and every one of us, bar a few of the hardy ne'er do wrongs, covered our homework books in them before we handed them in. One by one they piled up on his desk as the steam started to pour from his ears and his face turned red as...well...a post box.

Sadly there is no great pay off to this story. Next lesson we all got our books back, all of which had had the offending paper removed and an unspoken agreement seemed to settle upon us that we had taken this as far as we could. So I never did get to see the infamous temper and this story kinda just fades away, but having just spent 10 minutes writing it down, I'm quite proud of 11 year old me and my cohorts.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Thu 8 Sep 2011, 13:13, Reply)

Not really something I did, but I was the cause...
Back in 1984 I was 17 and studying for Highers (Scottish version of A-levels), at a private boarding school in Scotland. Class sizes were generally small, and there were only three of us in the class studying German. The teacher (let's call him Mr M) was not dissimilar in his manner to a mild version of Kenneth Williams. Yes, he was rather camp. He was also living with the Geography teacher. But that's not for me to judge!

Anyway... as my dad was in the British Army at the time, I was actually living in Germany, and had been since about 1973 when I was 6. So my German was generally pretty good (conversationally at least). Which, of course, made me kinda bored in German class.

So I was constantly messing about with stuff in class... paper planes, Game & Watch (remember them?), silly putty, etc. Just about every other class I'd end up having something confiscated.

Anyway, on this particular day I had in my possession a mini Rubik's cube, and a new Casio digital watch. I was messing with the watch and Mr M spotted it, sauntered over to my desk and said "Another toy? Right - hand it over!" which I did. Back he went and continued the class. Then I took out the Rubik's cube. It wasn't long before he spotted that too. He was furious by now. He STOMPED over to me, GRABBED the cube, and said in an exasperated voice :

"HONESTLY! I'm sure that if I stripped you naked and stood you on the desk, you'd STILL find something to play with!"

My two classmates pissed themselves laughing, and it slowly dawned on Mr M what he'd just said, and he turned a bright shade of pink (which really suited him).

Innuendo? Kenneth Williams eat your heart out.

Mr M was never able to look me in the eye again after that.
( calibrax loves teh hamsters (not in that way), Mon 12 Sep 2011, 14:16, 2 replies)

Last day of term
I was then, and and still am now, an incorrigable fidgeter. I can't function properly unless I'm rolling something about between my fingers. This explains 25 plus years of heavy smoking.

The last day of term of which I speak was in Mr Calvert's woodwork class. We had nothing to do and were sitting about on the benches. I think, arranged left to right, were me, Sandy, Burnsy and Buzz.

This, I think, was 1983 and it was already shaping up to be the long, hot summer that 1983 was in the UK - we were probably talking about Clare, Lisa and Steph and what our chances were (none - that's another story.)

Another teacher came in to chat to Mr Calvert - possibly about what chances they had with Miss Shoebridge the hot English teacher (none - that's another story.)

And I was fidgetting - as usual - this time with a 9" bit of wooden beading that I'd idly picked up.

Mr Calvert - possibly in mid-lustful discussion - backed towards me. I can still see his flabby grey polyester stay-prest clad arse approaching slowly and I did what I had to do.

I whacked his arse as hard as I possibly could with my bit of beading then thrust it into the hands of the nonplussed Buzz.

Mr Calvert turned round, gazed at his possible assailants and saw Buzz, slack-jawed with a 9" bit of beading in his hand and gave him a mighty whack.

I believe that Buzz is now a very senior police officer. Sorry mate.
( The Disappointed Caravanner of the year, Sun 11 Sep 2011, 19:58, 1 reply)