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)

idiot boy
I suppose it was cracking my english and drama teacher in the eye after he'd grabbed me around the throat whilst in the 3rd year.

I never wanted to be in trouble, but it always seemed to find me.

We'd finished a drama "lesson" being trees or some other such crud when I found that someone had spat in my shoe. For once in my school life I told teacher (I was angry and wanted to find the cock that had spat in what was definately the wrong shoe. Not that I was tough or a bully, just unhinged.) The aptly named Mr Bell seemed disinterested mainly because he hated me.

When I pointed out that if it had been Giles Rowland's shoe (one of the swotty kids) he'd have made us stay behind to find out who it was, he actually agreed.

Well this pressed my "mentalist" button and I hurled the shoe over my shoulder towards the rest of the class without looking. As it flew towards my classmates, I turned to see where it would land. In that moment time slowed down, I could hear the "whump, whump" of the shoe turning end over end as it sailed toward its inevitable destination. The probable outcome of this action began to crystallize in my mind as it walloped into the face of Giles Rowland no less.

My teachers face warped into a rictus of pure rage at the sight of footwear clobbering his beloved Giles's mush. He glared at me; his chubby, bespectacled cheeks flushed with anger (nickname: Penfold. He of dangermouse fame.) In his paroxysm of ire he began to assault me, a 13 or 14 year old boy. I'm guessing he was a violence virgin but instinct made him grab for my throat. As I'd alluded to earlier, I was slightly not right in the heed. He discovered his mistake when the little lad in front of him, powered by some deadly red mist crushed his wrist strengthened only by pen and vinegar strokes. This forced him to release me. His ill judged lurch was then countered by a right hook to the left eye socket which sent him reeling.

When he tried to address the upper school in assembly the next day, sporting a shiner, apparently they all chanted my name till he left the stage. I think I gained a bit of kudos from that. Other highlights included throwing a pencil case and chair at a maths teacher. Smashing various windows. Being summoned to the headmasters office to be expelled only to tell him I'd just had a county trial for rugby on the wing at which point he backtracked.

I also gained so many detentions, they ran out of days for me to actually attend them.

Back then I was diagnosed dyslexic. It was later that I discovered I was actually adhd which explained a lot. Including my ability to play countdown.
(johnnysmoke, Sat 10 Sep 2011, 21:12, Reply)

I didn't do much at school...
...Aside from competitive dope smoking, valium/mogadon/ativan popping, getting rather drunk, blowing the sub-station transformer up, rigging teachers only toilet door locks so they didn't throw the bolt. Much fun kicking the door to be had when a teacher was releasing a trouser trout to the wild.
Running beads of superglue along the front edge of desks, for those teachers who like to lean on the edge of the desk whilst patronising someone.
Setting a pair of stinkbombs up under the headteachers lectern so when he leaned on it, they went off during assembly.
Setting off the fire alarms.
Stealing sodium and cooking oil. Flush the urinal, fill the u-bend with cooking oil, then drop as much sodium in as you can. Bang-eth ensues when there is enough piss or after a couple of flushes.. It actually blows the u-bend clean off :-)
Rigging fluorescent light fittings by shorting out the tube pins with silver foil. Bit dull that one.
Rigging the shit trap cisterns so when you flushed, instead of the cistern refilling, it pissed water everywhere. As the cistern wasn't filling, the ballcock valve wasn't shutting the water off.
Charging capacitors up and leaving them lying around. That fucking hurts when you forget which is which :-)
Recreational arson, which sadly didn't catch as well as I'd hoped.
Removing all but two hinge screws from doors.
Those hydraulic damped door closers?. Full opening damping makes them a bastard to open. Zero closing damping makes them slam shut with remarkable force. Reverse that and the door opens easily enough against the spring pressure, then stays there. All day. Fully open....
Playing 'So What!' by the Anti-Nowhere League through the schools new PA.
Blowing the fuck out of a set of speakers. I'd recorded the ( then ) new AC/DC album 'Back In Black' onto a metal tape and it was at saturation level. That opening bell chime kicked in, the cones extended, and stayed there.
Total refusal to accept any form of corporal punishment, including yelling 'Are you a fucking paedo or what!' at the head of games, and 'Touch me you fat cunt, and I'll fucking slot you where you stand' to a particularly odious little twat of a housemaster. In front of about 300 other kids. I'd only farted, albeit in a loud and fruity manner, when he has making an important announcement. It was my actual slotting him that finally got me expelled. Well, that and most of the above.
I hate bullies, so if I saw a kid being bullied, I'd deck the bully. Six of them tried to 'get' me. OK, I ended up reeking of cheap perfume ( what the fuck kind of attack is hurling a beaker of cheap perfume anyway ), but I threw one down a flight of stairs, rendering him unconscious and broke the nose of the ringleader before the others did a runner.
Setting off smoke bombs under the stage of the main hall.
Lighting about 36 incense sticks under same stage.
Spending a rather pleasant afternoon mashed off my face under the same stage, up to the makers nameplate in a very pleasant young lady, who was also rather mashed. If we hadn't just smoked a couple of rather large joints and drunk a small bottle of vodka together, I suspect my advances would have been met with a 'fuck off' instead of 'fuck me until I can't walk'. For years afterwards, whenever we met in the street, we both got a fit of the giggles. We'd known each other since primary school. That was the first and last time we got squishy together.
So, which was the naughtiest?
( moonbadger Doesn't judge a fish by its ability to climb trees, Sat 10 Sep 2011, 18:11, 11 replies)

Booby trapped chalk
Circa 1991. It was one of our teachers* that told us of a prank where you drill a small hole down the centre of a piece of chalk, insert a non-safety match and seal the hole with chalk dust.

Sounded like fun, so we did.

Usually there would only be a few small stubs of chalk near a blackboard so when the Further Maths teacher sees a nice, new, full-length stick of chalk in the middle of his desk he really should have suspected something.

Class proceeds and those pupils in on the joke paid incredibly close attention to every mark made on the blackboard until eventually the chalk wears down, match head is exposed, strikes, and flames erupt from the end of the chalk.

Cool as ice Further Maths teacher, pauses and looks at the flaming end of the chalk.

"Oh, very good, boys" he says, turns the chalk stick around and carries on.

Emboldened by our success we repeat this with the nicest gentlest teacher there ever was. Applied Maths.
When his chalk stick splutters into flame he is visible shocked and confused, drops the flaming chalk like its on fire (it was)

Turning to the class, "I hope none of you boys were involved with this" he said obviously very disappointed. We felt so bad we owned up immediately.

*Moral of the story - pick your targets wisely.
(Rich T has a clever and witty sig, Sat 10 Sep 2011, 17:01, 3 replies)

The Professional
In Year 7, just starting in senior school, I hung out with the creative kids at our school. I did it primarily because of one girl, with long blonde hair and gorgeous eyes and a love of dark humour and sarcasm. She introduced me to On The Hour. She was wonderful.

I heard she was being picked on by an alpha male bully, who was a stocky lump of troglodyte. He was the tallest and heaviest of our year. Anyone in our group wouldn't be able to take him in a fight, so we tried to keep out of his way. He had asked her out. She'd said no. He'd made her life difficult since then, tugging on her hair or pulling at her backpack as she walked past him in corridors, sending her teetering backwards, for his own amusement.

So, a week after I hear about the bullying, we have our weekly PE lesson - and as the weather's terrible and wet, what better sport to play than rugby outside? Me and Lump are on opposite teams. He's screaming at his team if they don't pass to him and he's running through our team for fun; being a good half-foot taller and several stones heavier, nobody could stop him. In the conventional way, anyhow.

With a few minutes to go of the match, he's only got me between himself and the goal line for another try. He smirks and leans down to smash into me, sensing with my slender frame he might be able to snap me in half. He didn't know I intended to avenge the torture my first crush had endured.

I slide out of the way like a bullfighter, and as he goes past he straightens back up, jogging to the goal line. I've turned and I'm just behind him after four giant strides. Both feet get off the floor and my right foot extends as I put every pound of force into a Charlie Brown all-or-nothing kick, and it hits right where I wanted, right into his bollocks from behind. I can vividly recall the sensation on the top of my foot as it crushed his grapes. He yelped and jumped a good eighteen inches off the floor in shock and had managed to contort into the foetal position before he even hit the ground.

I will never feel as masculine as I did, leaning over his writhing body, at any other point in my life. Three weeks of detention? It made the story even more exciting to the kids in my year. In the end, puberty spurts for most of us meant the bully was less of a menace to our year. I still didn't get the girl. I did, however, earn the nickname Léon from my religious studies teacher.
(rzeki, Sat 10 Sep 2011, 11:11, 3 replies)

9 years ago tomorrow
Was the firt anniversary of the 11th of September attacks (as we hadn't all started calling it 9-11 back then), and my school decided to have a minute's silence. Being 16, I decided that this wasn't acceptable, as they had never had silences for other terrorist attacks, or wars, &c. Just armistice day, then this.

So four of us to see the head, and suggested that if they were going to do this, that they include the civilian victims of the revenge invasion of afghanistan. After all, more people died there. We were told this wasn't the point, it was to commemorate the people that died in the twin towers, so we announced that we weren't going to be taking part. That was the naughty bit. Impressed?

The teachers weren't, when we got to the first lessons of the day there was a note in the registers saying that we weren't welcome for the first period of the day, and should be sent out of school grounds until breaktime. I was suspended for 90 minutes.
( Ungersven would support SpankyHanky's patreon, Sat 10 Sep 2011, 10:15, 26 replies)

Ninja Darts
I've asked a few people, but I haven't found a school who used to make these to the same extent we did.

Take a square piece of card, fold diagonally in half, open and do the same on the other diagonal. Open again and put a drawing pin at the centre. Stick a good wodge of blutac behind it as a weight. Fold the edges in until they stick to the blutac leaving you with a 4 winged dart.

These flew with excellent speed and accuracy in the right hands and would stick into most things, plaster walls, wooden ceiling supports, and especially blackboards. You could pin a warning note to the teacher against the blackboard while they had their back turned to chalk up more boring shit. Blutac was instantly banned and anyone found with drawing pins were instantly expelled. Teachers came to fear the silent winged origami of death.

Remember how I said in the right hands you could throw those things with deadly accuracy? I was not one of those people. Sure I'd thrown a couple around and wedged one into the ceiling of the science lab (which on a visit last year I discovered was still there) but I was still an apprentice dart thrower. There was a particularly hated physics teacher and I'd been seen picking the blutac off a poster and was egged on to deliver a warning shot at Mrs Physics. Feeling cool, I agreed.

It was supposed to hit the blackboard, that's where I'd aimed at least, instead the dart went straight and true into the back of her head and to our horror, there it stayed.

Mrs Physics whirled around but luckily we must have all had the same shocked reaction and the guilty person was left unidentified. She looked around the floor, thinking it was an object that struck her and bounced off, but finding nothing and no obviously guilty party, she turned back and continued writing.

It fell off eventually and we worked in teams to hook the dart away and out of sight.

I have no idea if she ever found out. We stopped making darts when Andrew McGilchrist got it in the eye and almost lost sight in it.
(MrTeapot hasn't played with himself since, Sat 10 Sep 2011, 9:10, 7 replies)

I did it
but only because a bigger boy egged me on.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Sat 10 Sep 2011, 8:29, 4 replies)

...Come to think of it I was quite the little cunt.
The first I can remember was in year 2, during breaktime and trying to do some aesthetic regeneration work on a fellow schoolmate, whose name we shall give as *Matthew's face... With my fist. I don't even really remember what I had against the poor lad, just that his face sure would look good on the end of my knuckles.

A year later, in Year 3 I was mincing about in a bookcase with some shit, I was at the back of my class, that happened to back onto another Year 3 class' tables that was also in lesson (my primary school was a little bit cramped at times).

I found some amazingly thick elastic bands in said bookshelf that grabbed my extremely short attention span immediately. I HAD to play with these! Stretchy stretchy stretchy SNAP! Time seemed to slow down to a stop as I watched the now broken elastic band scream off towards the next door class. Right into the face of Matthew. I immediately acted normal, did my best "I'm just a normal student, doing studently things" gig and walked back to my desk.

About 5 minutes later next door's teacher came over and whispered into my teacher's ear and they gave us the old "One of Mr A's students was just hit in the face with a rubber band, who did this?! You totally won't be punished, at least not by us but your dad will likely need a new pair of slippers after the hiding you're going to get" speech and then, when no one owned up to it just kind of huffed and got back to teaching us about whatever it was.

In year 6, Matthew had become that kid that always hung around your social group but was invited by no one and couldn't take the hint to sod off. After school one day, my mum had cheerily volunteered me up to go round to his house for dinner with him after school, much to my chagrin. As we walked to his house, a kid who was well known as the school bully came lumbering along towards us and started laying into Matthew, first verbally and then physically, while I stood aside and did nothing. The bully left me alone since he lived in the same street as my cousin who he was terrified of.

I must've been the bane of his existence for a good 4 years and half of that time I probably wasn't even trying to be mean to him.

When secondary school came around I had a few run-ins with the people in power, the first coming in Year 8, although this one I was kind of shown in a bad light, in part thanks to a classmate's fantastic acting ability in pretending I had punched him, when all I did was ruler flick his ear as I walked by. I received a week of what our school called 'Internal Suspension', which basically meant I was my head of year's personal assistant for the week. He did apologize for his theatrics although, I have to say that it was probably the easiest week of my time there.

Then there was the time I got 2 weeks solid of 2 hour after school detentions with the 'senior management team' for beating up one of my team mates during a football P.E. lesson. In my defense he was a total shithead and had been riling me up the entire lesson with sly comments, although it probably wasn't the best idea to be kicking his arse in front of the vice principle who just happened to be standing in for one of the regular P.E. teachers as referee that day. Massive facepalm moment there once I realized what I'd done about half a second after I threw the first punch.

Year 11 I had what was probably one of my finest escapes from justice; Me and a good friend, Dean were standing with the rest of our social group on lunch break in the main hall doing 'kit bag curling'. A game we had devised where we took another of the group's P.E. kit bag, swinging it then releasing it to slide across the main hall floor.

It usually didn't have much force or velocity, but on this particular day the planets must have aligned and some stars were exploding or some shit and said friend's bag weighed a shitload. Probably on account of him cramming books into his P.E. bag with the rest of his shit, I gave the bag a swing once, twice, thr- SNAP! "FUCK!".

The bag went skimming across the main hall floor like a juggernaut and slammed into a year 7 at knee level. This year 7 looked like he couldn't have weighed much more than the bag did either, and much like those extra slo-mo replays of american footballers getting hit at the knees mid air, this poor bugger flipped almost 180 degrees and slammed headfirst into the floor with a loud crash, his own backpack banging his head into the ground a second time from behind as a final insult that had been levied upon him in the space of about 2 seconds.

The poor bugger was carried off to the nurse's office by some of the older kids that had seen him go down, but oddly enough no one had actually seen who had thrown the bag. Cue another grilling by the vice principle, who looked us all over with those cold, jaded, dead eyes that only an educator that had reached 'lifer' status in the biz could have.

He was just thinking about pointing the accusing finger at us, due to the evidence mostly pointing at us from the direction of travel of the bag, and the force with which it traveled (us being the only year 11s in that part of the hall) I should imagine there was also some DNA tests and ballistics a la CSI going on as he was obviously a supersleuth, but we were saved by none other than the owner of the bag himself.

He had somehow managed to concoct and spin a story to the VP that he was hated by a few sixth formers who on their way through the hall to the field outside and out of the gate to town had grabbed his bag and launched it across the hall as a mean joke.

Top notch acting I must say. I never saw that kid in there on lunchtimes again either until I left a few short months later. We often debated about whether we had actually murdered the poor soul with a P.E. bag, or at the very least instilled a permanent phobia of backpacks in him causing him to become a recluse.

Apologies for length, the wife gives me enough grief about it as it is.

What a massive cunt I was.
(Spackles Made sexual advances in your general direction on, Sat 10 Sep 2011, 5:13, 3 replies)

I had one of those friends who was a bad influence. That's my story, anyway.
When I was at Uni, I crept out one fine night at 2 AM, broke into the chapel, and scaled the pipe organ in the pitch black with my mate Dave. He wrote "Always look on the bright side of life" on one of the lower notes. I took the high E flat as a souvenir. I still have it. It's solid lead. I've often contemplated licking it just to see if it gives me lead poisoning, but good sense usually prevails. Nobody plays that pipe organ anyway.

Another memorable night Dave and I jimmied the lock to one of the physics labs and took a hovercraft for a joyride down the halls of the science building.

And yet another time we went on a midnight excursion to a nearby soybean farm and had an enormous soybean fight. Then we sneaked past the farmhouse and visited the pigs he kept out back. We were probably lucky he didn't chase us off his land with a shotgun. Later I was very sick. Turns out he had just put pesticide on his field, and we had probably ingested a worryingly large amount of it. Probably serves me right. Good times, good times.
(TheWonderfulWombat It came to me in a dream., Sat 10 Sep 2011, 3:37, 2 replies)

Blowing up the science lab
When I was at school back in the 90's the National Lottery had just started up and through them nice camalot peoples, my school obtained a £3 million grant to build a brand new state of the art science block. I was well chuffed when I came back from summer holidays cuz I knew my new tutor room would be in one of the new science labs. All us year 11 pupils were given a massive speech about how amazing these brand new science labs were and how lucky we were to have them and all about the saftey features, such as being completely fire proof and having bomb-proof glass with a special fire sprinkler system that monitors toxic chemicals and blah blah blah... I was soo bored I thought I'd stick a pair of scissors in the electric socket on my desk and turn it on to see what happens (as you do) and BANG!!! Less than an hour after term started, I had single handedly blown out all the electrics in half the school. It took 3 weeks for the new science labs to be fixed and all us year 11 pupils were moved to tempory huts for classrooms. I cant beleive I wasn't expelled, my only punishment was 6 weeks detention and to stand outside headmasters office every break and lunchtime with my nose against the wall. Was worth it though cuz i'd become the coolest kid at school and finally lost my virginity many times over... Those were the days!
(hoodwink, Fri 9 Sep 2011, 23:20, 1 reply)

Grandcarryauto
There was a prick of a prefect at school. Loved being a prefect, dolled out punishments for everything with a smug satisfaction.

Everyone hated him. I was, to be fair, a little shit and therefore I was on his hit list. So I received a lot of detentions, lines and our schools own punishment "Ifs" which was to copy Rudyard Kipling's 'If' out multiple times.

He needed taking down a peg or two so I devised a plan.

He drove a Fiat 126. They were shitty little cars and when I say little they really where small so I decided to move it.

I was a weakling short arse but I convinced some rugby types to help. we they carried his car across the car park and dropped it between two classroom blocks that left gaps no more than a few inches either side of his car.

I watched him leave after school. He walked up to his parking spot to find his car gone. He flapped around in a mad panic before deciding he'd better phone the police to report his shitheap stolen. But in order to get to the front hall where the payphone was (this was 1980's; no mobiles) he had to use the aforementioned gap.

He found his car! He cussed the world shook his fists and generally had a bit of a paddy. Then he spent a fruitless 20 mins trying a 1000 point turn to get out but unfortunately I had to go home so I didn't see how he eventually got it out.

Double unfortunately he was still a prick
(sittingduck Attention seeking, bullshitting fuck-knuckle, Fri 9 Sep 2011, 22:47, 1 reply)

Something of a stretch for the topic, but...
in this picture, admittedly a little bit distant, you can see Barack Obama at his podium. In the front row to the left of him is a girl in maroon, and to the left of her is a guy in a light blue shirt.

I was at the University of Richmond, sitting fifteen feet away from Obama himself.

(Well, it's a school, I'm a bit dodgy myself, and the Secret Service selected the people to be seated behind him, including me. The naughty part is that I didn't tell them, I guess.)
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Fri 9 Sep 2011, 20:51, 6 replies)

My sister grew a giant tomato for her science project
And I threw it at the headmaster's arse. Neither of them were best pleased.
(TheManWithThePlan cussed your mum on, Fri 9 Sep 2011, 19:30, 6 replies)

Truancy..
I decided not to turn in once, convinced my mum and dad I was sick, roped my mate into joining me, stole his dads car, and spent the day driving round with my girlfriend.

I think my sister tried grassing me up because by all accounts my headmaster turned up at the house, but got chased off by the dog..

After leaving school, I almost started World War III by pissing about with some computers, while my sister fucked off to some holiday camp and had funny dance lessons from that bloke out of 'Ghost'
(danniekavanagh did nothing constructive on, Fri 9 Sep 2011, 19:06, 6 replies)

Dropped a boulder of a cliff and killed the nerdy, speccy kid.

(mr-lizard Hell's teeth man!, Fri 9 Sep 2011, 18:44, 3 replies)

Technological Skullduggery
At the end of every term, the last week of school was always a waste of time. The kids weren't bothered about learning and I suspect the teachers didn't really give a toss about teaching them either.

However, to my parents, rules were rules, and I had to go to school. Every time I would ask to stay off from school on the last day of term, but no amount of protesting would assuage them. And with both my parents being nurses it was very difficult; nay, impossible to feign illness without actually making myself ill - like breaking my arm or overdosing on paracetamol (Neither of which I was particularly keen to try).
I was made to go into school when, surprise surprise, there would be no more than 10 or 11 people from my year, usually made up of kids who had also been forced to go to school, or were teacher's pets, or the thick-as-two-short-plank numpties who didn't understand the unwritten laws of school. It was boredom layered on boredom for the rest of the day. (I wasn't cool or rebellious enough to consider going into town or skiving off somewhere else)

So, fed up with this, I concocted a cunning plan, a plan so cunning you could brush your teeth with it. See, at the time, scanners were just beginning to become popular in the world, and it so happened that my dad owned one... which he had taught me to use.

One day after school, before my folks got home, I booted it up. One short rummage in my bag brought up an old school letter, complete with the official header and footer and logo of the school, and the headmaster's signature for good measure. A scan here and a copy/paste there, and a bit of formal wording on Microsoft Word from me, and hey presto - one 'letter' from the school "...excusing all pupils from the last day of term due to staff shortages". I even scrumpled it up a bit and put some biro marks on it for good measure. I cleared away all evidence of wrongdoing and positioned myself in a manner that wouldn't look out of place - in front of the telly. It was like James Bond meets Grange Hill (I might even have been playing the Mission Impossible theme tune in my head while I was doing it).

My mum got home. I produced the document. Several excruciating seconds ticked by as she scanned the letter. She took a sharp intake of breath. For a split second I thought I'd been rumbled.
"Well I suppose you'll get to stay home after all."

That Friday was the sweetest lie in I have ever had.

Length? One A4 page.
(Sum Gai My dog is a racist lesbian, Fri 9 Sep 2011, 18:42, 2 replies)

Working in Freiburg
A good friend of mine worked in the small German city of Freiburg im Breisgau over the last year as an English language assistant. We all remember the french language assistants, right? One cheeky bastard at her school handed in his homework one day with his phone number written on the top. I had to admire the balls he showed. As, apparently, did the head of languages, who recommened that Caroline phoned him as it 'wasn't against the rules, and I would'.

I should have been a teacher.
( Ungersven would support SpankyHanky's patreon, Fri 9 Sep 2011, 18:09, Reply)

At Sixth Form College
The computers were all RM Nimbus 8086s. They ran some weird arbitrary front end whereby you got a RM login screen and once you logged in you had two columns of squares for the F-keys which launched such things as BBC Basic, RM Basic (which was fuck weird), WordStar, SuperCalc 2, and other such late 80s goodies.
The login screen was a basic affair, name and password and that was pretty much it. So, I had a go at recreating it in BBC Basic. This was piss easy, so I had it capture the name and password and write it to a file. Then I added a routine whereby once it had captured it to a file, the program halted and it would close the RM menu system and drop into DOS.
After the last period of the day had ended, I logged onto each computer in the room and ran my program to capture loads of usernames and passwords. Not like there was anything worth accessing, just the thought of collecting the login details was too exciting to ignore.
After a few minutes, my fake login screen was running, and I left college and went home.

The next day, the Computer Studies teacher (and system manager), Ray (etc) collared me and told me what had happened. A night class was on the previous night, a group of people who were doing a "basic introduction to computers" course. They had turned up, logged in and rather than being presented with the menu, were reverted to a DOS prompt.
The tutor knew how to teach the subject, but had no clue about the system management and was at a loss at what to do. So she phoned the Ray who came out to the college from home to sort it out. He went around and rebooted each computer and then went to check the server logs, and found the last person to login on each computer was me, all at the same time.
I was banned from the computer room for a week for that stunt.


I also once told him he was speaking out of his big fat arse, though he didn't find it as funny as I thought he would in my head.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Fri 9 Sep 2011, 17:55, 5 replies)

The naughtiest thing I did at school?
That would have been Jessica Davis, I reckon.

Actually that's a complete and utter lie. It was Your Mum, of course
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Fri 9 Sep 2011, 17:42, 1 reply)

I didn't get up to much at school...
(With the exception of being part of the obligatory group that was thrown off the Duke of Edinburgh Scheme for drinking). This was due to the fact that my mother taught there (which was shit as you can imagine) and therefore anything that happened at school I'd get an earful about at home as well.
There was however one plus side. I got to get more of an inside perspective on what the Teachers thought. Turns out they agreed with use more than I would have thought.
I vividly remember the case of a poor unsightly slag we shall refer to as M. M Bloody stank, obvious hygeine issues and used to get a lot of stick for it. Those dishing out the stick (not me remember I was a largely well behaved teachers son) would usually get told off for bullying. Quite right too, for all her obvious faults (and there were many) no one deserves to be bullied.
For me though the consensus was largely backed up by my mother when she asked me "who's that girl in your tutor group that really smells?"
"Who M?" I replied innocently.
"That's her, she came into class today and I had to leave, I thought I was going to be sick!"
Just one example, as there have been many others on here, that if something seems like common sense, the staff are only disagreeing with it in public because they have to.
And then there was the time that the photo of a kid wanking off a dog at a party the night before was intercepted and passed around by the teachers before it could do significant damage to the kids reputation with his peers.
Of course I told all my friends.
(Monkeyofspong, Fri 9 Sep 2011, 17:39, Reply)

I have come to the slightly depressing conclusion that I have already previously told virtually every school related story I can think of.
But this old one is probably the worst thing I ever did to anyone at school and as I said the first time I told this, I will take any flaming and criticism that comes my way, because it can’t be any worse than how I have felt when I remember it.


We were 15/16. A group of us were going on a school trip. Three days staying in a Welsh ex-coalmining village. (woo! Party!) and among our group was Adam andAdam was a shit. He was twice the size of most of us, and was an arrogant, bullying, superior, violent wankbag of a teenage boy. I couldn’t abide him. Nor could the rest of us. We were staying in big open dorm type things, with bunk beds and communal showers.

Adam was in the shower. Adam was deaf. Adam had to keep his hearing aid dry so had left it on the side by the sinks. Adam had his back turned.

So Adams hearing aid went out the window.

We did make an effort to pretend to help him look for it, but we knew he was never seeing it again.

Adam had the most miserable three days of his life. He couldn't do anything. He followed the group around in silence. We saw him in tears occassionally. It wasn’t until I remembered how vulnerable I feel without my glasses or contacts that I started to get a feeling for just how horrific it must have been for him. Which is when we vowed we would never own up.


(although upon writing this, it does occur to me that our teachers must have been pretty oblivious not to notice something was wrong)
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Fri 9 Sep 2011, 17:26, 2 replies)

French Lessons
We used to have young female French trainee teacher types come over to help teach us glandular sixteen year olds O level French as part of their course. It was nice, they were generally pretty and friendly, not much older than us, and had their own little flat in the bowels of the school.

I'd hate to generalise about lonely young girls, far from home in a foreign land, but in the class of '86, Mademoiselle Nicole taught more than a few of the boys far more than how to read and write like the French.

One of the benefits of a private education perhaps.
(Hampton St.Roker (has probably had your mum), Fri 9 Sep 2011, 17:07, 7 replies)

I have already confessed this...
Twice.
( mrlogic is copying your beard, Fri 9 Sep 2011, 17:05, 1 reply)

The deaf would have complained
A supply teacher took a music lesson of 4th year seniors that consisted of the class (approx 30) being split into pairs, each with a keyboard set to a different instrument and a piece of music to play. The effect should have been of an orchestra playing something wonderful. However I couldn't be arsed to partake in this so when the teacher started us off I kept playing all the right notes, but not necessarily in the right order.
Most of the other groups had the same idea so the swots and musically enthusiastic kept time and played well, the rest of us mashed the keyboard like Steven Hawking having a sneezing fit. She got each pair to play individually (which we did properly) and couldn’t work out why it sounded like a Jack Russell being raped by a Gorilla when we all started together and after restarting the piece for the 8thth time was almost hysterical and screamed at us “This was written for 6 year olds to play!”
The noise was so offensive that the head of year (who was teaching in the next room) came in and gave us an almighty bollocking and threats of detentions for a fortnight. He then stood at the front of the room and said “GO”. Funnily enough we were all note perfect.
(TitanLX, Fri 9 Sep 2011, 16:57, 1 reply)

Master Bates
My physics teacher had the unfortunate name of Mr.Bates.
I don't think a day went by without someone shouting Master Bates at him.

I used to sit near the front of the class and would whisper "Mr Bates masturbates" every time he turned to write on the blackboard.

He didn't even react to it anymore.

After I'd left school I saw him walking down the road. I was genuinely pleased to see him and hurried over to say hello.
Sadly he crossed the road to get away from me.

In retrospect I don't blame him.
(EvilMeister, Fri 9 Sep 2011, 16:29, 1 reply)

PROTECT MY BUSH!
One of our softy Science teachers split our class into groups of 4 (groups chosen by ourselves – idiot!) and gave us 4 weeks (8 lessons) to write a `Green’ newspaper based on saving the environment.

I was team leader and had no taste for school and a lesser taste for science at that time so my pals and I took this as an opportunity do feck all for 8 lessons and then at the end of 4 weeks we handed in a hand drawn (by yours truly) topless Page 3 model with only a tree to protect her modesty down below. It was under the header `PROTECT MY BUSH’.

Teacher was not amused. We were very proud.
( DUMBLONDE is a rubber lover girl, Fri 9 Sep 2011, 16:27, 13 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)

Laminating Tricolore Books
I was in the thicky french class at school. The last day of term they obviously assumed we would learn nothing more due to our tiny brains. Instead of learning we were asked to laminate the new 1st years Tricolore books.

We were given clear stickyback plastic and scissors and told to get to work whilst the teacher went of for a fag/drink/sex/whatever.

Aged 14 we also had an abundance of pubic hair, well not for long as that made its way to the inside cover of the text book.

No way to remove without ruining the book, the crime wouldnt have been discovered until the new term. It was never mentioned but the thought of some young girl excited about learning a new language confronted by a clump of pubes amuses me to this day.
(CaptainSpunker, Fri 9 Sep 2011, 16:10, 4 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)