Whoooooosh!
At school, I was never particularly good at maths or science but I excelled at English (oh, those were the days).
When I was young and innocent, I should say around 11-12 perhaps, we were instructed by our Biology teacher to do a project on the reproductive process. I stalled and stalled and finally, exasperated, the teacher offered me a way out.
"As you're so interested in English subjects rather than the sciences, why not write a poem?"
Brilliant! thinks I. And so I set to work.

I'd just like to point out that this *was* back in the day and JUST before all innocence was lost and I set about it with gusto.
Upon handing it in I noticed the teacher was very pleased. In fact she seemed extraordinarily pleased. She was certainly smiling a lot.
She gave me an A* immediately. But that's not all.

She later came up to me in the halls and asked if I would like to do something special as my poem was so good. She asked that I write it out on a HUGE piece of A1 paper "complete with illustrations" for display and I would get extra credit.
Revelling in for once being the star Science student, I did this also with relish and gusto.

A few years later, I found out why I was given this extra special treatment... I was allowed into the staffroom where I saw my work of art displayed in a VERY prominent position.
There, in all its glory, was my unintentionally hilarious, extremely detailed and highly emotive poem about sexual intercourse, complete with smiley faced sperm all over the page.
I can't remember all of it although I believe the highlight of the poem was reaching the crescendo of the "sperm's race":

"Faster and faster they race fit to burst.
Who will be the winner? Who will come first?
Harder and harder blood pumps to keep it firm.
And then!
WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSH! Here comes the sperm!"*

I'd wondered why different teachers kept muttering "Whoosh" around me. :o( Bastards.

First post. Please be gentle. Apologies for length - you should have seen the full poem!

*Ok, so I wasn't exactly Coleridge, admittedly...
( MademoiselleDave is drunk and on the internet again on, Sun 16 Aug 2009, 16:21, 8 replies)

Cool Runnings
It was 1994 and the Winter Olympics were in full swing in Lillehammer, Norway. Being only 10, I didn’t really have much interest in it and neither did the rest of my class; we were more concerned about playing Cops and Robbers, putting upturned drawing pins onto each other’s chairs and singing the wrong words to hymns in assembly. Playtimes were spent swapping Panini Football Stickers (a shiny was worth at least 2 normal stickers), trying to push one another into the thorn bush and or sticking ‘itching powder berries’ down the back of someone’s shirt. Life was good; I had no worries in the world and not a great deal of homework to contend with at that age – as long as I went home with a new sticker for my album, I was happy.

My teacher at the time was Mr.Marsh; feared by many, he was the only male teacher at my primary school. His booming voice would stop a misbehaving child in his or her track. Some were known to have wet themselves after being shouted at. Now, Mr. Marsh was not an ordinary teacher. He made learning fun; we listened to every word as he spoke, such was the enthusiasm of the man. We’d already completed a class project earlier in the year where we had various airports dotted around the classroom, complete with toy planes. Daily timetables were drawn up and it was up to the ‘Air traffic Controller’ and ‘Pilot’ (specified daily) to move the correct planes, at the correct time, to the correct airport. It was not unusual to see children wandering about in the middle of a maths lesson, to move a toy plane to its next destination. This taught us geography and time management skills apparently. I didn’t care – it was fun.

Mr. Marsh also loved sport. Not only did he teach us in year 5, but he doubled as the PE teacher for the whole of the school. He was sport mad, so to him, the Winter Olympics were a big deal. I remember the beaming smile on his face as he broke the news to us about our next class project one morning.

“Class”, he started, his deep voice bouncing off the walls of the classroom, “for our next class project, we will be holding a bobsleigh tournament. You will work on your own and will compete against each other”

Our ears pricked up. Even the cool kids at the back of the class stopped whispering and passing notes.

“We will build a bobsleigh track in the classroom. Not a full size one for you to race down, but one that will fit a matchbox car. The only rule is, your matchbox car will have to look like a bobsleigh. You will have to use card to make the correct shape, decorate it in the colours of any nation you choose, and attach it to your car. We will then hold time trials to see who is the bobsleigh champion. We will build the course this week and time trials will be Monday and Tuesday of next week”. It was Mr. Marsh’s own little way of getting a class of 10 year olds interested in the Winter Olympics.

We couldn’t believe our luck – we were going to be coming to school to race our cars! Even the girls in the class didn’t seem fussed by this. I was over the moon; a keen collector of matchbox cars, I was sure I had the perfect car to beat all the opposition.
The course was built over the next few days. Mr. Marsh provided a plastic track from some sort of toy car race track (Hotwheels or something similar). This was attached to wall at the side of the classroom, running down at quite a steep angle so that the cars could pick up speed. It was about 7-8 metres long, then doubled back on itself sharply, and ran along some desks that were pushed together alongside the wall. The first part of our project was to decorate the wall with a winter Olympic theme, complete with spectators. I think Neil drew a yeti somewhere in the background. This was the boring part on the project. On the Friday, we all had to bring in the car that we wanted to use in the bobsleigh tournament. Mr.Marsh supplied those who hadn’t got one (mainly the girls) with a car from his collection. I carefully cut out two shapes that vaguely represented the side profile of bobsleigh, and blu-tacked them to the side of my car, which was a black Porche if I recall correctly. I had chosen this because the wheels seemed to go the best out of all of my collection. I gave my bobsleigh the number 12, and coloured it in black, green and yellow; the colours of Jamaica. We were even allowed to oil up the wheels of our cars - It was one of the best days of school ever. I actually wanted the weekend to go quickly, as Monday was the day for testing our cars on the track and making any modifications if required, ready for the time trials on Tuesday. Most of the class couldn’t wait either and a friendly rivalry had already sprung up amongst classmates.

Monday came, and one by one, we were allowed to take our car to the top of the track and release it, seeing how well it performed. Giving the car a push was not permitted. I waited with great anticipation for my turn; my surname begins with ‘W’ so I was one of the last as we were going in alphabetical order. I was sure that the other kids would be so jealous when they saw how fast my car went. Finally my time came and I stepped up, make-shift bobsleigh in hand. I let go and it whizzed down the track at some speed, much faster than most. When it came to the curved bend, the bobsleigh almost shot over the top. ‘Ah, skills’ I thought to myself, ‘I can win this’. My main competitor, from what I could tell, would be a girl named Sarah Bow, who’s bobsleigh had also nearly left the track, such was the speed of it. I hadn’t noticed anyone other bobsleigh do this. I went home Monday a happy child, brimming with confidence about the following days competition.

Tuesday came and it was the final day of our Winter Olympic project, the day that we’d all been waiting for – the race competition. Excited voices filled the classroom that morning, every child was confident that their bobsleigh would win. I kept quiet; I knew that it was a two horse race between myself and Sarah Bow. After class registration, we had an opening ceremony. Every competitor had to go to the front of the classroom, say an interesting fact about the country they were representing and place their bobsleigh on the desk before returning to their seats. Mr. Marsh waited until the 25 or so small bobsleighs were lined up, and declared that we would be starting the day with a history lesson; competition would commence after break. What a tease.

We came into class after break time and the competition started. All did not go according to plan. The first couple of bobsleighs seemed to ‘stick’ to the track and wouldn’t go down it. Closer examination revealed that there was a cheat amidst us; the wheels of the toy cars had been stuffed with blu-tac. Picking up my car I noticed the same thing had been done to mine and the wheels were slightly bent. I was quite distraught – my hopes of winning the competition had been dashed. Mr. Marsh hit the fucking roof!
“Who has decided to cheat and ruin this for everyone?”. The walls shook such was the ferocity in his voice. No-one owned up, no-one daren’t look up; every child in the class had their eyes fixated on their desk. Mr. Marsh was clearly disappointed that someone would do such a thing. He explained that he would ‘come down like a ton of bricks’ on the person responsible for cheating, should he find out who had done it. Fortunately, such was his love for this project, he let us have until lunch time to fix our bobsleighs and competition would restart in the afternoon.

Rumours circulated during lunch break about who the phantom tamperer could be. One name kept springing up; Sarah Bow. Rat-Catcher Simon told me that he had seen her go back into the class during break time and a couple of other kids confirmed this. For me, that was enough evidence. She was a competitive little cow – it was widely known that her mum had completed her Mozart project earlier in the year and she had taken all the plaudits, as well as the book token first prize. I was fuming. My bobsleigh had no chance of winning, the bent wheels meant that it was now one of the slowest. If I couldn’t win, I was going to make sure that Sarah Bow couldn’t either.

I scoffed my lunch down faster than usual and left the canteen. I made my way towards our classroom, pausing only briefly for a quick sip from the water fountain – my throat was dry; I was going to do something devious, but I didn’t know what. The classroom door was open slightly, and peeking through I saw that the room was empty. Outside, I could see other members of my class playing ‘Tag around the bush’ and Mr. Marsh watching over the playground, wearing really tiny PE shorts. I entered the room and pushed the door shut behind me. On the desk in front of me were all the bobsleighs. My eyes scanned the desk quickly, looking for Sarah Bow’s, all the while I was listening intently for any sounds of someone coming. If I got caught it would ruin me, my reputation would be in tatters as I would surely have been prime suspect as the phantom tamperer.

I saw Sarah Bow’s bobsleigh, (a red and white one, I think it was Canada) and I grabbed it in my hand. I examined it –not a trace of any damage to the wheels; she must have tampered with everyone else’s, I was sure of it. What I did next still confuses me to this day. Not really knowing what to do with the bobsleigh, I dropped my trousers and inserted it into my anus. Now, this was the first time I’d ever put anything up there, and I was surprised by how quickly it slipped up once I’d got the nose of the car in. ‘Wow, it’s like it’s actually driving up me’ I remember thinking. At the time I was worried that our pockets or bags would be searched once Sarah discovered her bobsleigh was missing, so my arsehole was the only place where I could safely hide it. Once composed, I went into the playground and joined my friends, my bum pulsating slightly.

An upbeat vibe filled the classroom upon our return after lunch. Even Mr. Marsh seemed to have calmed down and was eager to start the competition. I stayed calm, I was perspiring slightly but I kept my cheeks clenched tightly, my stolen prize stayed put. I knew that Sarah Bow would go mental when she discovered her bobsleigh was missing.

To cut a long story short, she broke down in tears when it came to her go and she couldn’t compete. I think Mr. Marsh may have had his suspicions about her already, he just shrugged and said, “You must have misplaced it”. My heart swelled with pride and my buttocks ached with pain – I had stopped Sarah Bow winning and it was just what she deserved. I think Andrew ‘Carrot Nose’ Littlejohn won the competition in the end. I came in the bottom 3, but I wasn’t fussed. The highlight of the whole project for me was seeing Sarah Bow’s devious little plan all come unhinged. I waddled home that afternoon content with the world and had the most refreshing poo of my life to date. The Canadian bobsleigh slid slowly out of me and I picked it from the toilet bowl with some tissue paper and buried it in the garden.
(Monkey the Chicken Twitter: death_stairs, Fri 14 Aug 2009, 10:47, 10 replies)

The most ill conceived school project ever
I majored in Anthropology in college, and for my senior project I had to do a paper or project on material culture in the modern world. I chose to do mine on Russian prison tattoos. I was not what you'd call a "motivated" student, (I finished 22nd from the bottom in my class) so it got to be a couple days before it was due and I hadn't even started.

There was no way I was going to be able to write a 20 page paper in a couple days, so I opted for the project instead. What arose in the next couple of days has become the stuff of legend at my school, and the professor still uses my video as an example in class. I decided to videotape myself getting an authentic russian prison tattoo on my ass. Words fail to describe the experience, so I'll let the video do the talking.


www.vspworld.com/vsp/?p=20

Oh yeah, I got an A.
(raulduke, Fri 14 Aug 2009, 18:06, 19 replies)

My unofficial school project
There is a school project I have gained infamy for, however, it was one very much unofficial and non-condoned by the school. When I was a younger lad and still at school I would have likely been described as "quiet", "shy" or "timid". I hardly spoke to anyone in my year and would keep myself to myself. I would get good reports noting my conscientiousness and all the other trappings of a prized swot. Fate one day struck me and knocked me off my current path and into new territory though.

What could it have been that sent me on such a divergent path? Why of course the internet my friend. Having convinced my mother to upgrade to broadband and entrust me with setting everything up I became delighted to learn of there being 10mb, a whole TEN!!!, worth of webspace that came with the account. I pondered many a day and tested as many designs; my mind churning over what I could create. I needed something that drew people back again and again, something different, personal and funny. After two weeks of pondering I struck gold and thus...

"Wanker of the Week" was born!

The premise? People could vote for someone they thought had been a wanker and the reason why, votes would be tallied and the supreme wanker would be announced at the end of each week. This was back in the day before social networking so a quick e-mail to everyone on my msn account got the ball rolling. There were over 100 votes in the first week. Soon enough my whole year of school knew about it and were regularly voting. At the end of each week I also struck on the idea of making a Certificate of Wankership for the weekly 'winner'. This was sprung on them Jeremy Beadle style after waiting for them outside of their classes.

The webspace was HTML and M$ Frontpage only unfortunately so no fancy code could help make the tables for me and I had to each night tally the votes and update it myself. This did not bother me however as there were many gems for the reasons section - "Johnny Davis - by Waffles the dog - 'he hits me with his tennis racket and makes me lick peanut butter off him afterwards'" and "Charles Baker - by [his girlfriend] 'he makes me take it up the arse and it bloody hurts'". The genius behind that one was even though the girlfriend didn't know about the website he still fell out with her because of it!

As the popularity grew people began to demand more and more. After adding a guestbook which acted more like a forum I was receiving daily content to add. This included what was to be my downfall - edited pictures of members of the teaching staff including the headteacher in a bunny suit chasing children. I was falling behind with updating the website and not producing enough content to met demand so I had to take on helpers. In the end the website had - wanker of the week, history of wanker of the week with running commentary, guestbook, page making fun of the teachers, pictures of teachers, porn pages, jokes pages, cheats page and a page of "the white home-boy" raps done by a guy in my class that were only included because they were so shit. One rap in particular which will be mentioned again later was him talking about killing the teachers with an AK rifle. I even had two people listed as "photographers" for the website.

I knew things had gone too far when I walked into my graphics design class late and saw every computer screen on my website. Some of the younger school kids who had started to get involved had apparently been telling the "sound" teachers about the site and it was only a matter of time before I was caught. Vigilant of how fast things were progressing I decided one morning enough was enough and I would delete everything once I got home. Fate is a cruel beast and that was never to be. During the graphics design class one lad complained his internet had stopped working, he called the teacher over who explained that people caught on the website were having their internet cut off and would have to meet with an assistant head to get it restored. Fucksocks!

Break came at 11am and my website team and myself gathered to discuss what was happening. I decided if nothing was heard by lunch I would skive the rest of the day. The period before lunch was Physics and there I sat quivering over what was to happen. Five minutes were left to go and the "white home-boy" turned to me and proclaimed "we're free!". At that moment however I heard the distant sound of a door creaking open in the corridor. The air grew thick and I was only conscious of the slow sounds of footsteps reverberating in my head.. one by one they came and seemed to go on forever. Suddenly they stopped along with my heart as it was replaced by knocking. The door slide open and there was the assistant head!

"Brydie?"
I raised my hand, my mouth didn't want to work - I had never had a punishment exercise or detention never mind the trouble I was to find myself in.
"Come with me!"
I got up and was edging round the desk when I heard the words that struck home how serious the situation was...
"AND BRING YOUR STUFF!"

I proceeded behind him through the corridors towards the office, him every now and then turning round to say "this way" or "come along". Entering his office I was informed to sit down and he assumed his place behind the desk.
"You know why you are here"
"emm, no" I squeaked, I was praying it was something else, please god you miserable bastard please!
He sighed and turned his computer monitor round to show me the website. There staring back at me was a picture of a teacher being sodomised by another, I had to face facts - I was as fucked as he was.

"We know it is yours it is registered in your name" A lie! It was in my mum's name and I have a brother at the same school as well as a common surname so it could of been plenty of people. I had a list of team members on the site but they were all handles, no-ones real names were anywhere to be found. It transpired he had all the names of those involved. How? I'm guessing it was the lad caught on the website though he denies it to this day. I don't blame him, I would of done the same as apparently he was told if he didn't grass he wouldn't be allowed to use the school computers thus by default failing two of his subjects. I myself am as guilty as him as I sat there defeated confirming the names of those the assistant head read out one by one.

Eventually after my initial grilling I was moved to the waiting room where two of the team members were also. We were told to sit in silence and we stayed there for ages before again my name was called. I went for the assistant head's office but was shouted at and directed to the head's. Inside they both sat and I made to opposite them. His face burned red.
"What possessed you!" He screamed as he turned the monitor to show the picture of him in a bunny suit. The surrealism of it was unreal , I felt as if I could pass out at any moment. Nothing was said for a few seconds, me visually shaking and him gritting his teeth in pure anger.
Finally - "I was going to take it down" I protested
"Well its too late for that, your grandmother is on her way to collect you. You are to be suspended pending the police's advice it may become an expulsion. Furthermore, some of the teachers may wish to press charges so you'll be kept informed."

I saw my future slip away from me. I was raised to expect to go onto university and now I was being told I could be expelled and given a criminal record. If I was kicked out there was no chance another school would take me if they heard why I had to leave this one! These thoughts and more bounded round my mind as I trailed home with my grandmother - the whole 20 minutes it took to walk home in complete silence.

Believing the game was up I whenever no one was paying attention packed a rucksack which I hid inbetween times in my cupboard. I was later to run out armed with it and two bottles of spirits... that though is another story ;-).

In the end eight people were suspended with at least 11 people having been called in to be interrogated. One tried pointing out that the welcome page had a message proclaiming "if you are a teacher or member of staff at any high-school you agree by clicking to enter to give me £10,000,000,000,000.01" as his defence which apparently didn't go down well. The White-home boy was made to sit while the headmaster read over his raps asking him what caused him to be so perverted and that charges may be brought against him as well. His defence of having spelt the teachers name wrong meaning it actually referred to fictional people worked and instead of being suspended he was sent a letter home informing his parents it may be worthwhile if he was to receive therapy.

After I was caught and dragged back home the police wanted to talk to me, not as a criminal but because I had been a missing person for two days. They informed me that they had seen the website and actually found it quite amusing and that in no way was it going to be viewed seriously. "Its like when I was a lad you'd write things on the toilet wall and cut the teachers heads out and glue them onto others". The school reluctantly let me back and I completed my education with a cloud ever loaming above my head... and that my friends was my unofficial school project.

Apologies for length and lack of funnies - its my first time after all!

P.S. the last comment in the guest book before the site was removed? "Tut tut you naughty fourth years - good site though :-D"

EDIT: I can't believe I forgot to include the part about prize giving! I think the website and being suspended happened around March-April time and then June of that year was prize giving. As I said I had normally got good report cards etc and this year I was to be given both the computing and accountancy & finance prizes. What happens is you are given book vouchers in advance to buy a book, hand it in and then get given it back by the headteacher infront of everyone's parents. I'd love to say I bought a book entitled "Advanced Web Design" but sadly I did not; instead I got "C++ an introduction". I swear I still saw the headteacher take a double glance at it though before having to shake my hand and give it to me.
(Brydie, Thu 13 Aug 2009, 18:15, 20 replies)

Yessss!
I was waiting for a topic like this to come up after my visit to my sons parents evening at the end of last term.

As we were shown the pile of information the teacher was explaining to us the latest class project that they had just finished to create a perfect village using a mixture of papier-mâché, cereal boxes, yoghurt pots,plastic bottles etc etc.

“You can probably guess which one was designed by your son” replied the teacher in a sarcastic tone(We haven’t really seen eye to eye since the dream diary incident I mentioned in a previous QOTW reply)

Looking at the village I was thinking, does she mean the school that’s has shcool written on? Maybe the post office that’s looking deformed…..ah

I had found it

In the middle of the picturesque village with a playground, post office, shcool and swimming baths was a volcano lair, complete with bottle top glass dome, matchbox gun turrets, partially painted airstrip and yoghurt pot deathtraps for would be intruders- this must have taken him ages to complete and I will say that I was impressed.

Unlike my wife who pretended to be shocked at the whole thing I asked the teacher if it would be coming home with him over the summer (I was planning on adding a few pipe cleaner-skeletons on the beach for him during my week off).

The bad news is that the island won’t be coming back to my house until September as its being used for some schoolwide project that’s due to be shown sometime after school re-starts.

I will probably pass on a few more “creative plans" for his island before he goes back.

I love being a dad.
(mon bison powered by magnets, Thu 13 Aug 2009, 16:11, 11 replies)

Mom had a school project when I was in grade 12 (final year of high school)
entitled "Keep My Son From Failing English 12".

The background:

I had grown up and done all of my schooling in Vancouver (British Columbia), but late in grade eleven my stepdad had got work way up north in an isolated tiny town (population 3600) and when the summer came the rest of the family moved up there too. I went from a graduating class size of 900 to a school with less than 500 people comprising grades eight to twelve.

I was able (mostly) to continue along the paths my schooling had prevously taken, although the physics and algebra were like an easier version of the previous year. The computer science class was so far behind what I was used to that I got to challenge the final exam/project and ended up with a free period.

English. English 12 was the only provincially required grade twelve course you were required to take and pass. The teacher didn't care for me from the start - I was told later that he tended to sneer about "big city" attitudes, and since I came from the city...

Anyway, he tended to mark me hard. If there was an essay, or even a few paragraphs that had to be creative, he tended to fail me. One that stands out was when we were preparing for the provincial exams towards the end of the year: one of the exercises was to write a thesis paragraph on what makes the world go 'round, three supporting paragraphs, and a conclusion. The point was to learn the style - the content was irrelevant. I wrote about greed.

We did these in class, then he handed out criteria and had our peers mark them first, then he marked them. I got two perfects from my peers, and a fail from him. Why? Because greed *doesn't* make the world go 'round, and he knew the provincial markers wouldn't like that I'd said.

The year was coming to a close and I had about 23% in his class. I had high marks, A's and B's in everything else, and a solid academic record, but I was going to fail the required class and not be able to get my diploma. There seemed to be very little I could do about, either. Guidance counselor would just talk about making it up next year, and the principal said it was up to the teacher to grade my work, and accusations against him would have to be backed by pretty strong proof. I resigned myself to being boned.

June arrives, and as I'm coming out of algebra I hear my name on the overhead speakers, and I'm told to come to the office. Also, it was the principal speaking which was odd, as typically the vice principal or office secretary would be the one making announcements.

When I got to the office, all of the staff were mysteriously absent except for the principal who had a bit of a wild look around his eyes. He ushered me into his office where another man was already sitting behind the desk. "Thank you, you can go now" he said, dismissing the principal from his own office.

"I'm Brian Greener, school superintendant for the Peace River district." Ah, the principal's boss's boss's boss. He was based about 500 km from the town I was living in.

"East and West Germany have just reunited (this was 1990), what do you think some of the effects of this will be?"

This caught me off guard. I was still trying to figure out what I was doing here with this man, and he throws this at me? Ah well, I'm good under pressure so I expound at some length, talking about cultural collisions and superinflation and such. It wasn't interactive - he just watched me and listened.

"Some car manufacturing companies in the States, like GM, Ford, Chevrolet and so on are unionized. Others in the States, like Toyota, Honda et cetera are not and, despite the non-unionized workers getting less pay, they have no interest in unionizing. Why do you think that is?"

Beat the he'll out of me - I was seventeen and didn't really know anything about unions or car companies. I gave it my best shot though.

I remember there was another question, but I can't for the life of me remember what it was.

When I was all done, Greener leaned back in his chair and said, "Well, you don't seem to be the fucking moron that [English teacher] would have me believe. "I don't believe I am, sir." I replied.

"You know you currently have a failing mark in English?" I nodded. "Do you want a chance to do something about it?" he asked. I did, what did he have in mind? "I'll give you the provincial exam from last semester (this school didn't have semestered English, so I hadn't taken this test). Whatever you get on the test will be your mark for English."

I agreed of course, and he administered the test on the spot. With no prep time, I was locked in a closet of a room with the test, and off I went. You were allowed two or two and a half hours to write the test, I did it in thirty five minutes. I remember the supplied topic for the essay at the end was "rings". When I was done, Greener marked it on the spot, and I got 98.5%. he went off to present it to my English teacher with a big shit-eating grin on his face. It occured to me then that possibly my teacher wasn't as universally liked as I'd thought.

When I went home, I told my mother about all of this. After listening, she told me that she'd made a few phone calls after seeing the continual anti-favouritism (not the right word, but I can't remember her exact term) that I'd had to endure all year from this teacher, and that she knew I didn't deserve a failing grade in something like English.

Thanks mom!

Apologies for choppy sentences - I'm typing this on my phone and it seems to be affecting my flow.
(Ejaculantern was caught desecrating pumpkins on, Tue 18 Aug 2009, 3:25, 7 replies)

my end-of-year project for Drama
was a performance art piece, where I pretended to be a man with Tourettes syndrome and no fingers. The teacher described it as "offensive and pointless."
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Sat 15 Aug 2009, 4:22, 4 replies)

courting Alice.
Alice, Alice, Alice. What was she like? She was like a breath of fresh air in a sewer. Like the word "sky" whispered by one who sits in darkness, in a prison without windows. As Euclid must have felt when he first saw the Golden Mean, so we felt to look upon Alice. How fortunate it was that we were not in the age of duels, or of ships sent against cities, bearing men with shields of bronze. The corridors of Wanniassa High School would have swum with gore, and the lessons learned would have been bitter ones indeed.

Anyway, she was having a birthday. Probably a 17th? I was somehow aware of this, even though I never talked to her. It was in the air somehow, like Autumn; as the approaching end of school can't be seen, yet is everywhere.

I was walking home with my friend Mark, when she appeared. She was handing out photocopied invitations, each one-eighth of an A4 sheet of paper, and yes I do remember the exact dimensions of the invitations, and each letter and picture too, as if she had written in unfading letters of golden fire on my very skin, instead of with pen on paper.

She gave Mark one. I didn't expect to be invited, and tried to bear my lot stoically, heavy though it was at that moment. But some part of my desolation must have shown, because she said "um..you can come too if you want" and gave me one. Thankfulness and humiliation no doubt warred for dominance in my face, as in my heart, as I gave some ineloquent thanks.

But I couldn't go. To accept such crumbs would be worse than starvation. She didn't want me there, her friends didn't want me there, Mark certainly didn't want me there - although frankly fuck him. My burden had been lifted only to be replaced with another; that of the wheedling, prideless part of myself, which lied and lied, saying it'd be OK, you never know, and anyway..just to look at her in her summer dress; and this last was truly its most powerful argument.

And yet, the humiliation of being the only one to not go, to listen to Mark's boastful recounting, no doubt as profane as it was fanciful; to bear his poisoned questioning of my thin excuses. If only she had been cruel. Yet, if cruel, she would not have been Alice.

Such were the thoughts that gripped me that weekend, throwing me back and forth like a lurching drunk being beaten by two bouncers, not that I knew what that was like then. But then genius struck.

I would buy her a present. I would deliver it, with my excuses for non-attendance. And (and this was the genius part) - it would be a fucking awesome present. It would be, as it were, the ambassador whose grace and wit make the court forget the many shortcomings of the actual country. To desire to visit it? Well, perhaps at least to think of it with some fondness. To, perhaps, wish that it was here, instead of the other country called Mark. Yet what present could play such a role, especially to Alice? What do you get the girl who is everything?

A record? Christ, she likes...Ultravox? The Cure? I looked at my sister's copy of 'Smash Hits' like a tourist with a subway map which he's holding upside-down. Who are these people? My sister's advice may as well have been directions for getting through the spice-markets of Zanzibar. OK, girls like clothes...I don't know how to buy clothes for a girl. Perfume? Ha! Soft toys...Soft toys! I will buy a soft toy, which girls like, and it will be awesome, because... because I will spend all my money.

Now, the reader will no doubt see that this could go horribly wrong. What if I'd bought an imp bearing a love-heart announcing his status as a 'horny devil'? Or a magical pony, designed for one half her age? Yes, I respond, but what if I'd got it astonishingly right?

Community Aid Abroad (aka Oxfam) had a shop which I used to look in, and one of the things they had were - I guess you'd call them realistic-looking soft toys. Tigers, apes, giraffes, that sort of thing. Anyway, I knew which one I wanted: the leopard.

It cost $300, which was pretty much all I had. Man, I'd get into trouble if my parents knew. Do I want it wrapped up in tissue paper? Er, yes, I suppose. Card? Um...I haven't got any more money...but it was free. And so I took the bus to Alice's house, holding my present like I was trying to stop it exploding.

Alice's Mum answered the door. Thank God, I don't know what I would've done if Alice herself had been home.

"Wow, you look just like her" I said. I wasn't trying to be sleazy/charming, I actually just blurted out the first thing that came into my head. Anyway she seemed to like me OK. I explained that I'd been invited to her party, I couldn't come, but I bought her a present...

"Do you want to leave it in her room?" It was quite something, that room, the first girl's room I'd been in other than my sister's. Belinda Carlisle's claim that heaven is a place on Earth made a lot of sense at that moment. I didn't linger (this being b3ta, I should specify that I also didn't steal underwear for 'later'), I wrote a quick and dignified note on the card and made my exit.

And that was it. I was there while not there. Not in the gangly and awkward flesh, but looking through the wise and loveable eyes of a soft-toy leopard. Like a cuddly sphinx, offering and needing no excuses. Where are your excuses, o you who came bearing cheap perfume, like unwise kings visiting a cut-price saviour? Your kingdom is ground down to dust, your witty sallies are worms in a corpse's mouth, and only I remain. Only I remain at night, when you have gone home, passed out, vomited, been picked up by your parents...I didn't really know how teenage parties worked, I never got invited except this one time. Anyway, at some point you've gone, is the point, and what remains? The moon, Alice, and I.

And it worked. It was her favourite present of that year, and she said so. And that leopard bestowed on me qualities I'd never had before. As Alice desired the leopard, so everyone desired me, at least a bit. And I got to hang around with her and, months later, I went out with her, after she'd 'gone with' and broken up with someone else. Anyway that's what I wish had happened. So, yeah, basically I'm saying that if you want to ask someone out you probably should, OK? Better to have loved and lost than be writing about it on b3ta twenty years later.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 14 Aug 2009, 15:03, 20 replies)

Technology Teacher Showdown
This is a long one - sorry....

I had a technology teacher at school who was an absolute cock. He took an instant dislike to me. In fact, he took an instant dislike to all the lads in the class.

This dashingly-moustachioed middle aged chap in his safety goggles and natty white coat was only interested in the attractive girls in the class, you see, who received lavish guidance and assistance in their projects, whilst he would occasionally just wander over to the table where me and my mates sat and tell us our projects were crap.

This was really frustrating to me, because being a bit of a spod, but not that great at technology, I wanted to do well and really needed quite a bit of guidance to do so. Against my principles, I decided to enlist my dad's help on my project.

My dad, you see, was not only a technology teacher, but also a massive enthusiast for anything which involved building stuff. Most of the furniture in the house when I was growing up was made by him. The porch was built by him. He is the sort of person who has a wall of tiny shelves in the garage, all arranged in exact order and meticulously labelled, so that he'll never be without the right sized screw. And he's not just some handyman-type - he was a GCSE examiner for technology, and had also had a brief apprenticeship in technical drawing when he was a lad. The man seriously considered a career designing ships....

Inevitably, invited to help out on my technology project (designing and making a bathroom organiser thing to keep your shower gels, soaps, etc. on in handy reach), he approached it like a man asked to facilitate a moon landing.

We went down the shops and purchased every variety of soap, shampoo, and shower gel, in order to take accurate weight and dimension measurements. We then designed a holder based on these dimensions, including shaping the holder in a manner which maximised the ease of removing items whilst ensuring they didn't drop out. We investigated the qualities of a selection of materials before settling on plastic as the most durable option, despite the fact that in order to make it my dad had to obtain access to a particular kind of industrial plastic and plastic moulding machine used by a bloke down the pub. Making it involved getting in the car on a Saturday and driving to a workshop on an industrial estate to use the machinery.

The coursework which accompanied the final product included detailed debriefs of every detail of the design, as well as explanatory notes on aspect such as methods of fixing to the wall, and the pros and cons of various plastic types. Not only was this all very detailed, it was checked off against the GCSE marking criteria in order to ensure it would be well-nigh impossible to award me anything less than an A*.

I submitted it. Waited for my results to come back, confident in the knowledge that even this cock-end couldn't possibly justify screwing me over this time. Eventually, the results came back....

D

My dad was, to put it mildly, fucking livid. He contacted the school and was promised the teacher would call back. Apparently, the conversation went something like this:

Dad: 'Hello, I'm Snowy's father, I'm puzzled as to how his technology project, which he spent an enormous amount of time on, only got a D?'

Teacher: 'Well, Mr Snowy, as I'm sure you'll understand, we're trying to work the children up towards their final GCSE projects, and GCSEs marks aren't awarded purely on effort but based on a strict criteria, which we're obliged to follow. I'm sorry that you feel that Snowy has worked so hard to no avail, but unfortunately, there were areas in which his project just didn't warrant higher marks, and it's only fair for me to give an accurate mark now so that he can improve in future and achieve a higher mark in his final project'

Dad: 'Oh, OK. Well, I have the Northern Examination and Assessment Board's GCSE marking criteria for technology projects (which I believe is the board you use) in front of me right now, and a copy of Snowy's project, including model, so would you mind talking me through exactly which of the criteria you felt it didn't fulfil?'

Teacher: 'Eh?'

Dad: 'Well, I think it's only fair...'

Teacher: 'You actually have the marking criteria?'

Dad: 'Yes - I do.'

Teacher: 'Erm.. tell you what, let me have a look over it again and see'

And so I got an A, which dad saw as at best a compromise, knowing full well it should have been an A*.

The irony of it all? When it did come to my final project, my Dad was too principled to help me and I was too principled to ask. and so I got... a D.

Still, it was worth it just to know that my Dad had put this pillock in his place.

And no apologies for length - there's a detailed rationale for it which my Dad will submit on request.
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Thu 13 Aug 2009, 14:37, 17 replies)

nobtionary
There's that bit in Superbad, where the main kid reveals a secret shame of his childhood. A love of a particular art form, a dark and mysterious technique. He basically drew a lot of cocks. Well my chums, I was that kid.

I say kid, I was probably 14/15 at the height of my career as a pro-nobbler. All the usual stuff; speednob, the heavily-inked-nob-on-rubber-then-stamped-on-someones-face trick, tightly co-ordinated homework attacks just before they were handed in. It was the the sheer volume that was most impressive. During those glory-days I was a pioneer, a rogue nobslinger, people genuinely feared where the next cock was coming from. One beautiful moment came as a teacher walked around class to check on our illiterate stylings.
*teacher approaching at far end of table*
"Ian, if you don't look over there you're gay"
*Ian looks away, rampant and proud felt-tip cock is drawn over Ian's homework*
"LOL"
*utter desolation on Ian's face. Ian looks at cock. Teacher looks at cock. Ian looks at teacher. Teacher looks away. Ian looks at cock.*

So you're getting it. I was into cock. There's really no other way of saying it. But this is meant to be about projects, not cock. Well, I found a way to combine the two. I made The Nobtionary.

It was designed to cover every type of nob imaginable. A referencing aid, or as I tended to think of it, a biblical tome. It started off innocently enough, with some fairly tame deviations from the basic form, as hopefully illustrated below:
*sadly not orginal nobtionary artwork, merely a recreation what I knocked up moments ago - that's right, I still got it*
L-R: nob, inverse nob, hotdog special, mushroom cap, spermchain, wrinkled ranger



These were small variations on a standard theme, and initially you could get about 10-15 on a page. Over time though, things started to get a bit more abstract, a lot more elaborate. It was heavily influenced by popular culture, from childrens T.V. (budgie the little nobcopter, thomas the wank engine), to action films (the sperminator, robonob, rammed-bo). Even Norse mythology was accounted for (thor's wanger). By the end things were getting out of hand, with the hugely technical drawings (ie vein detail) taking an entire sheet of A4 each. Some of these wonders included McNob (bagpipes for balls, wearing tam o'shanter on head), the hanging nobs of babylon (a visual feast let me assure you), and the infamous paedophiles revenge.

I would dearly love to show you all these. I'm genuinely proud of the effort that was put in, by far and away the most I applied myself to anything during school. Sadly I cannot, as after 3 years of dilligent creation, I left my bag at the bustop, where it were kicked and abused by ruffians. The Nobtionary was nowhere to be seen in the aftermath, and the heroism of the book was passed on into myth. After it was lost there were rumours going round that one kid or other had hold of it, maybe a teacher had found it, and it was now passed round in the staff room to alternating reactions of horror and merriment. I miss it. If you find it, tell me. You'll know it because it has 'nobtionary' written on the front, and inside is full of cocks.

ps Joe if there are any truth in the rumours and you are reading this I WANT MY COCKS BACK PLEASE

length? NOB B=====D~~
(bacontrout got ska, Fri 14 Aug 2009, 4:03, 7 replies)

Robbed
In sixth-form I did Physics A-Level and was part of a group asked to take part in a competition at Manchester Science Museum.

Four of us turned up to be told that we had to make a lunar rover out of Lego, capable of carrying Christmas trees(obviously) up a mountain on the moon.
The winning team would get some state of the art personal stereos. Pretty good prizes - this was pre-portable CD players and mp3 was a word not invented yet.

Our rover was immense. Geared to perfection and although slow, would drive up monstrous gradients. It also had a large platform for carrying the aforementioned moon-based Christmas trees.
The other teams were a bit younger and didn't have the Lego skillz that our team possessed and had all made single cogged-elastic band powered go-karts.
The competition began and in each round our magnificent tractor would grind it's way to the top of the ever increasing gradients.

Soon, there were only two rovers left - ours and one of the go-karts that seemed to have the most powerful motor.
The last round started and the gradient was death-defying.
The tiny go-kart tried and failed.
Now it was our turn. Cogs grated and the motor whined as the rover started up the hill... Unfortunately, as the rover was built to spec of transporting trees, it's weight was hampering it's progress and it ground to a halt halfway up, at pretty much the same point as the crappy go-kart.

A draw!

Surely our engineered rover, capable of actually carrying things and having a well designed gear system would be awarded the prize over the five minute cobbled-together go-kart which would barely carry a few twigs, never mind moon Christmas trees...

The teacher adjudicating decided that there was to be a play-off!
Who has the fastest rover over a flat surface?

To be honest, there wasn't much point even running the race as everyone in the room knew who would win.
We argued our case but to no avail - the teacher would not see reason and the kids with the go-kart were smug in the knowledge that we had no chance.

At the prize giving, we stood grinding our teeth, as each £75 stereo was handed over.
As the last kid received his stereo from the adjudicating teacher - two words still haunt me.

"Thanks Dad!"
( scoshi pretending to diet since, Fri 14 Aug 2009, 10:27, 6 replies)

Draw the Ressurrection of Jesus
Whereas everyone else drew bearded stick-men surrounded by yellow light, I decided to go for the realistic approach.

At the end of the lesson I handed in a full-colour drawing showing, in gruesome detail, the body of Christ being dragged from its resting place by bears.

I didn't get on with my RE teacher after that, although in all fairness my picture is probably what actually happened.
(MJPerry was crude but clickable at, Sat 15 Aug 2009, 12:23, 5 replies)

INCULDING OBLIGITARY PALM TREES & CAMELS
Mandy Thompson completed her piss easy talk about Bethlehem, complete with camels made out of blu-tac and toilet brush palm trees, and sat down.

Fuckin' bitch - Mandy Thompson always picked the easy ones...

At my incredibly relegious Catholic secondary school the RE teacher - a demented ginger lady who looked like she'd come to work with a semi automatic weapon along with her cling filmed cheese sandwiches anyday now - used to make us draw lots to choose our monthly projects. This month was Places from the Bible. Mandy Thompson got the easy one. I got something incredibly fucking hard. So, I took the only sensible, reasonable course of action - I forgot all about it and went out and played football after school every night until the night before the project was due.

But when I actually sat down the night before with my dad's Encyclopedia Britanica, a big bit of blank paper, and some crayons I'd nicked from my little cousin Rob, I discovered a whole new world of mystery and wonder. Fuck me... The bible had finally had some kind of effect on me...

I was elated. OK, I sort of went off at a tangent - but all the same, why hadn't anyone told me about this place before? To my twelve year old mind it sounded absolutely fucking GREAT!!! This was in the FUCKING BIBLE!!! Eyes wide, trembling slightly, I started to think how to put this down on paper. Being one for a bit of flair when it came to putting together a presentation (they were, after all, very nice crayons and it was a really big bit of paper), I set about doing a modern take on the biblical place I'd drawn out of the hat.

I did a tourist poster - and it was fucking AWSOME!!!

Back to class, Mandy Thompson had finished, put away her diorama, and I stepped forward, unrolled my big bit of paper - and the class went deadly silent. The ginge teacher - Mrs Bannister - went pale and I could almost hear the very perceptible sound of her arsehole puckering up. Ha! My discover was IMMENSE!!! It was time the WHOLE FUCKING WORLD knew about this place!!!

So I began.

I explained it was a nice place to visit. Lots to see and do. I explained that I'd researched the place completely and this was all above board and legit. (After the presentation where I suggested Jesus Christ was an alien from Alpha Centuri, I had a bit of work to do to get the class back onside). And then I went on to discribe my poster, which was basically a crude stick figure bending over and another stick figure behind the first one. I had the foresight to draw big smiley faces on each of them. And beads of sweat. I assumed they'd be enjoying themselves and God knew there wasn't alot of that going on in the bible. And anyway, the Encyclopedia said some people derived pleasure from the act, and I was intrugied. The whole damn world, or at least Class 3B, deseved to know about this revelation. It was up there with the resurrection, in my humble opinion. I'd also put the name of the place in big bold print at the top with the tagline:

COME HERE FOR FUN AND GAMES!!! THOUGH YOU MIGHT END UP BURNING IN HELL!!! With the name of the place in even bigger letters at the bottom. And, of course, a few obligitary palm trees and camels to give it that authentic bible-ley feel.

And that's how - in as much graphic detail as a feckless, fuckwit twelve year old can muster - I discribed the act of sodomy to a class of thirty-three kids and one very irate, red-faced, about to go absoultely fucking Postal teacher.

I managed to get halfway through before Mrs Bannister stopped me and sent me on the all too familiar trip to the headmasters office.

I just felt sorry for the kid who'd chosen Gomorrah - there was no fucking way they were going to top my effort.
( SpankyHanky, Tue 18 Aug 2009, 19:31, 4 replies)

A-level psychology
Part of the A-level psychology course was to design, conduct and evaluate your own psychological study. So, I decided to do something a bit different than the 'suggestions' given by our lecturers (for the numpties), and mine was simple, but effective:

H1 - women looking at pictures of men after eating chocolate will find the men more attractive because of the release of...serotonin or something.

H0 - eating chocolate will have no effect on how attractive women perceive men to be

So, we have to fill in proposal forms and send them to the BPS, covering if any ethical issues will be raised, how we will deal with these, if they are justified and so on.

So, off I sends mine, with the working title: "Does chocolate make men more attractive?"

I got it back, and written in red pen in big letters at the top, was the legend: "Have you tried dipping them in it?"

I got an A


EDIT: I cocked up my results (ie couldn't be arsed to do them all so made some up realising I'd have more to write about if my experiment seemed a bit shit), so I have no idea if my hypothesis is valid or not. All female b3tans who want to volunteer to repeat the experiment click 'I like this'!
(BelladonnaAnodyne Melissa's gonna wet herself, I swear..., Sat 15 Aug 2009, 11:22, 2 replies)

Saved by ACCIDENTAL BEE!
I've just remembered a story from my primary school days, when, as I mentioned in a previous post, I was at a C of E school. (Well, tambourine-banging evangelism masquerading as C of E...) I don't remember much of the work we did in the first few years...mostly just sheets full of sums to complete or handwriting exercises. But I recall one afternoon when the teachers got the paints out. I think we'd been studying Noah's Ark, because we were set up round a table with the watercolours and told to paint animals. I could only have been about 6 years old at the time, and the class was taught by Ms J, who was lovely.

The assistant teacher, Mrs S, however, I was slightly afraid of. She was alright really, but had a tendency to be a bit shouty if she didn't like you. When it came to my turn to paint, she was supervising the group. I wasn't too worried to start with and just started dawbing at this piece of paper, absent-mindedly.

After a few minutes, I realised I was daydreaming. As I'm often wont to do, even to this day, the part of my brain in charge of regular, rational thought just departed this world and disappeared off into some fantasy world which probably involved dinosaurs and my cat, Morris. (I loved my cat. He was awesome.) Morris and I had likely just hitched a ride on the back of a triceratops when I heard a voice cutting through the fabric of my Cretaceous wonderland.

It was Mrs S.
"So, what animals are you all painting?"
Oh crap. Oh holy fucking crap. I've been daydreaming.
My heart did not so much skip a beat so much as a Gene Krupa drum fill. My hand had just kept daubing at the paper as my brain had imagined me climbing a tree with Morris to escape a hungry megalosaurus. I'd forgotten I was supposed to be painting an animal and I'd just wasted a load of time and paint and Mrs S would be angry and shout at me because I hadn't done as I was told...

Time ticked away. Johnathan was painting a lion. Kirsty was painting a horse. There were only a few more kids left between me and the wrath of Mrs S.

I had to think fast - and not about the possibility of being saved by a conveniently placed and benevolent ankylosaurus - could I turn this collection of daubs into an animal of some, any description?

Christopher was painting a pig.
Fay was painting a zebra.

I looked down at the piece of paper. What had my hand been doing all this time?

Robert was painting a bird.

I looked down and saw a series of yellow and black lines.
Oh god oh god what's yellow and black and striped and...well, it's just yellow and black stripes, like...a zebra covered in wee...or...
"A BEE!" I said.

Fuck knows how, but my brain had managed to save me by drawing Accidental Bee. At least, brain had painted something which I could turn into a (very long) bee. I could paint a bee and then Mrs S wouldn't shout at me.

I resolved to finish my bee and return to my Cretaceous paradise at a later date. That was too close. Thank goodness for Accidental Bee.
(LongJohnBaldry, Wed 19 Aug 2009, 12:23, 5 replies)

Technology Project
As part of my GCSE technology coursework, we had to take 2 already existing products or items, and combine them to make a better product. The improvement could be to the safety of a product,the efficiency, the aesthetics or anything else you could come up with.

I decided to improve a glass tomato ketchup bottle. My other chosen item was a condom. Slipping the condom over the neck of the bottle, the rubber provided more grip when retrieving said bottle, reducing the chances of the user dropping it and cutting themselves. The condom could be easily removed when the cap needed to be unscrewed, and could be replaced after use.

My teacher really liked my project and gave me an A* for my efforts and helped me market my idea. It was promptly snapped up by a supermarket. Unfortunately, it has led to a number of users being labelled incorrectly as sexual deviants. The spermicide on the condoms proved to be quite slippery - many people found themselves dropping the ketchup bottles and some had even slipped over; the bottle entering them anally as their trousers came down. As my invention is not widely recognised, it has become increasingly difficult for the users of my product to explain the presence of a condom on the bottle when this unfortunate incident has occured.
(Monkey the Chicken Twitter: death_stairs, Mon 17 Aug 2009, 10:24, Reply)

Don’t talk to me about School projects
I was a notorious swot at highschool and would always like to try and get the best grade or the most recognised piece of work.

We were told that the upcoming end of year history presentation (in front of the whole year) may have a prize for the best one and were allowed to either work in groups or go it alone, I wanted the prize for myself and therefore went it alone.

Over the weeks up to it I spent hours labouring over the project and had done more than required, including adding a few references to keep the assembled crowd amused too.

When it came to the big day I heard I was due on next to last and therefore had to sit in the audience nervously while a number of other students tried their best. A few presentations were amusing, some totally forgot their lines and went totally off tangent and then it was my turn.

I stepped up confidentaly, delivered the whole matter using a few pictures for demonstration and received a few claps from the auditorium, I sat back thinking that I had done a good job and the prize was surely mine, especially since the last act was the two class slackers.

Oh My God.

Don’t ask me how, but somehow the two managed to get a number of actors dressed up as historical figures and whipped the audience up into a storm. They then ended with a firework and laser show by packing every one of the actors into a telephone booth and disappeared, Doctor Who style.

Needless to say they won the whole thing and I was pissed.

I hope they spent the book token on one of those “how to play a guitar in a day” instruction as their band was crap (Or one to improve your acting ability as during the presentation one of them was quite wooden with a monotone voice and the other looked like he would only get a number of bit parts in the future- like a vampire gang member etc etc)

Sorry I am still bitter.
(mon bison powered by magnets, Fri 14 Aug 2009, 11:41, 11 replies)

Not so much a school project as the results of one
In yr8 (14 years old) woodwork we were making something inane- moneyboxes? Something like that. In any case my teacher had forgotten how extremely accident prone I was and let me loose on a band saw.

At first I was cutting straight lines and I was fine. Confidence building I go for my first curve. Hang on, thinks I, the saw isn't going as fast- I know, I'll push harder. There, that works.

I think anyone who has ever used a band saw can figure out what happens next.

You finish the corner and the saw goes zipping through the rest of the wood in 2 seconds flat and takes off the end of my finger. It was my ring finger on the left hand, right through the nail and you could see the end of the bone.

I'm pretty sure I was in quite severe shock at this point as instead of screaming loud enough to get the required attention I meekly put my finger in my mouth and went over to my teacher. The exchange went somehting like this-

"Mr Whetton?"

"Excuse me Misskitty, you can see I'm with another student. You know how to wait your turn, now do it."

So I stand there going slowly paler and paler with my finger stuck in my mouth waiting for him to finish explaining some technical peice of crap or other to another student. Then he turns to me.

"Ok Misskitty, what can I help you with?"

At this point I merely took my finger out of my mouth to show him. I really didn't understand the reaction I got until much later when he described to me what he saw before him.

A 14 year old female student with whiter than white skin pulls her finger out of her mouth, blood starts running out of her mouth, as her finger sprays blood at his face. Blood is also running down her hand so fast that within a few seconds it's covered her hand and hit the floor where it is making a quite significant puddle.

Though he said the worst bit was when I tried to start talking, blood was still filling my mouth so when I tried to explain I'd hurt myself it came bubbling up through my lips over my chin and soaking my shirt.

I got the rest of the day off to lay in the sickbay.

Not very well told, but true story. My finger grew back fine but the teacher never looked at me the same. Never ignored me when I walked up to him again either.
(misskitty reeks of sex and turpentine; laudanum afternoons, Wed 19 Aug 2009, 4:36, 10 replies)

Hand axe
I was 11, at the very beginning of the very first term of 'big school' in Mr Creichton's history class. We were warned that he was a cantankerous old cunt and for our very first homework project we were told to make a neolithic hand axe. WTF I thought, how am I going to do that? My mind was so welling up with fear of not being able to complete this task and the inevitable punishment that would ensue that my whole weekend was drowned in complete worry until my dad saw me looking down in the dumps during Sunday lunch.

I poured forth a sorry tale of woe and worry and I confess there may have been some watering of the eyes, but my Dad just told me to cheer up, got the car keys and off we went to the local gravel pits. After about an hour of searching we found a fearsome looking lump of flint that was just the right size. We then found a small branch and hacked it off a tree. With our raw materials in hand we returned home and I was instructed to cross the street to see George the cobbler. Mr Smith was an undiagnosed tourrettes in denial who promptly bombarded me with a stream of vitreol but nonetheless gave me a load of 1/4 inch strips of leather and refused any efforts to pay for said leather.

With the leather soaking in water I set about cutting the branch to the right length. I then split the newly-fashioned axe handle carefully and inserted the flint in to the y-shape. After wrapping the soaked leather around the flint and handle and burring the cut end and charring it over a naked flame for authenticity the axe was ready to dry.

The next morning I ventured in to the garage to see my finished project. It was incredible. the leather had shrunk so tight that the flint was held securely within the axe handle. I imagined roaming the neolithic plains, dispatching anyone and anything foolish to mess with me and my hand axe.

I had to wait until first period after lunch until double history with creichton. I looked around the class and was elated to see that my axe pissed all over the competition. A few had no axe at all and were promptly awarded with black marks. The rest of the class ranged from a sorry looking pebble to a piece of sawn timber with an apologetic stone sellotaped on. Creichton just prowled the classroom picking up the pitiful offerings and disdainfully throwing them back down to the desk. Scores of 3, 5 and 4 were spat out towards the pupils.

My axe was next and I remember it was the only time I ever saw him smile. He was obviously impressed and held the axe for the rest of the class to see and proclaimed it to be very nearly almost authentic, detailing the use of the almost correct materials and methods. My mind was rushing with the spinal-tapesque score I would be awarded, when the smile evaporated, the axe thrown on to the desk and 'seven' uttered from the old bastard's grey old lips.

Seven? Ignoring the fact that it was the best score in the class I could not get round the injustice of it all. What in the name of god would you have to do to get an 8 or a 9? He then picked up my exercise book and drew a red star in the bottom corner. I had done it. I got my first merit mark (first of very few, it would transpire), and was the only one out of the class to receive one. This happily tempered my disappointment at being awarded a stingy seven.

My Dad was (and is) not one for sentimental nice shit and we didn't spend huge amounts of time together when I was young as he doesn't like sports or running around, but this was one of the few times that we did something together and it was great. He didn't do any of the work for me, but gave me some directions, including letting me use his saws and a blowtorch. Thanks dad.

Length? It was 14 inches long, with a head 5 inches wide.
(mersault, Tue 18 Aug 2009, 13:51, 5 replies)

Black & White
A lot of people in my school year would see how far they could get with their essays and projects, in terms of writing using "non-standard" pens and paper.
The boy who wrote a 4000-word essay on Post-It notes, for example, or the girl who found it amusing to write everything in purple Crayola.

Our teachers, understandably miffed, decreed that "all essays must be on A4 paper, in black and white".

The next essay rolls around and I did as instructed. I bought some black A4 paper, and wrote in Tipp-ex.

Well they didn't say WHICH way round the black and white had to be.

Length? Of the detention? About 35 minutes
(MightyX5 living on a small island on, Tue 18 Aug 2009, 10:14, 6 replies)

Oho
Just remembered another one. About two years ago when I was still in sixth form, the school's head of business studies got the school involved in a project designed to encourage young entrepreneurs. This took the form of a nationwide project where over 10,000 young people were given £10. The aim? You had six weeks to increase it as much as possible. The person who was the most successful would receive a big prize (somewhere in the thousands of pounds).

Do you know what the most successful entry from our school was? Rachel's.

She bought ten £1 scratchcards and won £60.

Rachel is now an accountant.
( MatJ LOOK, Sun 16 Aug 2009, 22:30, 1 reply)

I opened a book I was marking
in my class the other day to find that in the absence of a glue stick a child had used a bogie to stick his work down.
( Mrs Entity is in hiding., Fri 14 Aug 2009, 0:09, 5 replies)

Dinosaur poos
When I was about 9 my class did a big project on dinosaurs, which basically involved getting into groups and doing big pictures of dinosaurs. Naturally the boys did fierce T-Rexs while the girls concentrated on gentle looking herbivores with My-Little-Pony eyes. Colour schemes were left open to the imagination, so the boys did their creations in greens and camos while the girls' efforts were, well, more girly. This filled us hearty lads with contempt.
One girlosaur was so contemptible - pink, big eyelashes etc - that a nameless boy decided to correct it the next day by drawing a row of round brown plops coming from the creature's bright pink arse. The result was sidesplittingly funny, especially when the teacher found it and went ballistic. She decried the "grubby little boy who drew these silly ... things ... coming out of its bottom."
To which one boy, the culprit I assume, replied "They're not things, Miss, they're poos."

Disclaimer: It wasn't me. I wish it had been.
(mudskipper, Thu 13 Aug 2009, 23:57, 3 replies)

Model of a volcano
when I was ten. Made from paper mache & then painted with whatever paint was left in my parents garage. I ended up presenting something that looked like a 32E magnolia coloured breast with bright orange discharge coming out of the nipple. Given a mark? It looked like it should have been given antibiotics.
( lkjshaglkasjdhglkhjz lkcvl; g;aodh;owih, Thu 13 Aug 2009, 15:50, 2 replies)

Teenage Spunkiness
There is no group of people more irritating than teenage girls. Particularly me and my friends when we were at school. We were loud, giggly, obnoxious, thought it was hilarious to embarrass adults as much as possible and in fact behaved inappropriately in every way....

Our class Home Economics project when I was about 15 (about 1991, Christ on a bike...) was to produce with a marketable food product. Our brief was to do the market research, invent a product, source and design packaging, and advertise it. It was a competition and the winners would gain a small prize, the nature of which escapes me now. I forget who judged it too.

We did very little actual work. We decided to invent the first thing we thought of, which was dips - we were well ahead of our time. In those days you basically had mayonnaise, salad cream, ketchup and Dairylea. None of todays indulgence's like hummus, salsa, sour cream and chive. So where we got the idea I'm not sure, but we realised straight away it had potential for gleeful coarseness.

"Ha ha!" I giggled, as we wrote recipes for creamy white gloop, "spunky dips!" and so the name of our product was decided.

We came up with four different dips. Our packaging was cheap plastic cups from the canteen (those terrible flat cola or "juice drinks") with jampot covers for lids. We drew labels with globules of squirting spunk all over them, only just stopping short of CDCs themselves (is that a... carrot?). And we sang a catchy jingle "Spunky Dips! Spunky Dips! You'll looooove our Funky Spunky Dips!" (like Reggae Reggae Sauce sung by Timmy Mallet... but with barely concealed vulgarity. I think we might have even slipped something in there about creamy, salty goodness... )

And Pink Minty Fuck, if we didn't go and come second! Beaten only by Jane the swot who wrote a 12 page presentation on how she'd tackled her project (which was malt loaf. Malt loaf FFS).

There was an impressive write up in the local paper too. Apparently thanks to our "enterprising and insightful market research" we had discovered a "niche in the market", and with our "inventiveness and resourcefulness" we had, er, "filled it". This was alongside a picture of me and my mate Faye grinning like mongs as we thrust the spunk-covered cups towards the camera, entitled "The girls proudly showing off their funky Spunky Dips".

I've just been trying to find it in the Westmorland Gazette archive with no luck yet sadly. Ah happy days...
( warmfuzzies Isn't here, Mon 17 Aug 2009, 21:14, 4 replies)

The most Dangerous Project for a 12 year old...
Ok, 8th grade (yep, American with chagrin) Physical Science II class.

"Build a project related to class". Went to in school library and found book on "Fun Science Projects for Teens". Hmmm this looks interesting, "Carbon Arc Furnace".

What this was, was a home-built way to "melt soft metal using electricity".

You see all you have to do it take two batteries apart for the carbon rod inside, mount them to two wooden posts, run lamp wire from a home power outlet, through a OPEN GLASS CONTAINER OF WATER and salt, then to the two carbon rods, when the rods are brought in proximity the electricity jumps across and heats a flat ceramic tile held above it.

The teacher looked at my finished device, dubiously, and asked if it was "safe", of course I said yes. Do I want the lights turned off for effect? "Ok".

Cue me bringing the two rods together holding TWO THOUSAND WATTS of electricity about 12 inches, apparently a death-proof distance, in front of my face (in the dark).

This thing makes the Van de Graf Generator demonstration done in most science class’s cry in shame at their impotence. It made a lighting bolt sound and a 1/4" diameter arc 1 1/2" wide. No one in his or her right mind would let an ADULT build or operate this thing.

Suffice to say I blew the lights in SIX classrooms and permanently was called "Einstein" for the remaining five years of public school.

ADDENDUM: As an after thought I thought I would add that the lampcord was connected to the carbon rods by rapping them around and twisting the wire, the lam cord in the beaker of solution was two bare wires hanging and unsecured the in beaker. The two rods were moved together with my hands less than 1 inch from the rods, bare wires, and beaker leads.

So:

Touch a carbon rod: Die (teacher goes to jail)
Touch a wire: Die (teacher goes to jail)
Knock over the beaker whilst wiggling the contraption and spilling electrified liquid: Die (teacher goes to jail)
Unsecured beaker wires falls out of beaker and touch it:Die (teacher goes to jail)
Looking Directly into High Intensity Ultra-Violet (X-ray) radiation for too long: Blindness (teacher goes to jail)


Footnote: I just decided to build another one THAT"S how cool it was.
(OMG-Hilarious, Sat 15 Aug 2009, 11:45, 7 replies)

Art GCSE
At GCSE I took Art, as I knew that if I wanted a 'proper job' one day I would have to take 'proper subjects' at A-level, so I saw it as my last chance to dick about a bit.

Now, I'm not the best at drawing, I can do it but I'm so impatient I can't be bothered with shading and whatnot, so I used to be quite inventive to avoid having to do much drawing. One of our coursework pieces was entitled 'My Town', so I made a sculpture of a church window out of plaster of paris bandage type stuff (may not be the real name of the substance) and stuck it to some paper on which I'd drawn a silhouette of some famous buildings in our city, then done 'sunsetty' sky at the top. Other girls in my class were all chavs, and even worse at drawing than me. They, in the same project, had pretty much all drawn a (lopsided) building with a cartoon of themselves at the front with 'my town' done in bubble writing at the top. My art teachers were lovely hippyish women who were obviously very frustrated and took the time to nurture me, let me come in at lunch to improve my skills and so on. I am still friends with one of them to this day.

Anyway, I digress.

The time came for the FINAL EXAM. So, what happens is, you get 2 weeks to prepare for a piece, research and so on. You're supposed to chart your progress through this, sticking pictures that have inspired you in a book and so forth. You then get 10 hours time (split up, obviously) to actually do it.

Now, as I have said, all the other girls in my class were chavtastic. There is invariably a 'fashion' theme you can choose (design a festival headdress, for example), and they all did this. Not ONE of them actually MADE the headdress, just spent 10 hours (ha ha) drawing it.

So, I went not one, but a MILLION times better. I filled 3 project books with my research into INSTALLATION ART. Oh yes. Now, I was a bit of a loner at high school, so nobody knew what I was planning to do.


Which is why they all looked a bit shocked when I came into the exam, where they were all sitting silently drawing, took off my school blouse (to reveal a vest top, pervs), tights and shoes, and started to make casts of my foot, leg, arm and hand (with the aforementioned bandagey stuff).

I made a cast of the top of a head too (vase) and wrote all over them and painted the nails, until, when placed on the floor, it looked like someone had sunk into it, with just the top of their head, outstretched arm, top of the leg and foot showing.

It was ace. I got the only A in the year.

I still have it and take it out from time to time to have a look. As I said before, I'm not a creative person, and seem to spend my life surrounded by musicians and artists, so it is nice to know that, before uni and research squished it out of me, I was good at creative stuffs.

On another note, I have a 2500 word essay due in on Tuesday, of which I have only written the introduction, and have spent all morning on B3TA before I go to work.... damn.


Length? Well I'm only 5 foot 1
(BelladonnaAnodyne Melissa's gonna wet herself, I swear..., Fri 14 Aug 2009, 13:42, 7 replies)

Grade 9 or 10 science class
The teacher was discussing acid rain, and how combustion products of sulphur combine with water in clouds to form sulphuric acid. He then challenged the students to come up with a way to collect the smoke from a sample of burning sulphur.

At this point the class dero, who has spent most of the year either absent or in a THC-induced daze, steps up to the plate by constructing the perfect device to isolate smoke.

A bucket bong.

The teacher had no idea what it actually was, of course, and gave him a commendation for his "original thinking".
(oball needs Satan more than he needs me, Thu 13 Aug 2009, 18:08, Reply)

MRS GORDON'S TITS
"Hey, Scary," said Mrs Gordon, "How would you like to do something special for me?"

Ah, Mrs Gordon. Our posh totty humanities teacher with an ability to speak in very sexy italics and to reduce teenage boys into gibbering wrecks.

"I would absolutely love it if you edited the next school newsletter."

"Lmpf snpp glaaaark."

I didn't even know there was a school newsletter, but – despite fearing this might be some sort of sexy trap – I eventually declared that I would be delighted.

"Oh, I'm so very pleased."

I went home and lay down for a bit.

Thanks to THATCHER coming to power, I had no access to any kind of word processor, and I had to write out the whole bloody thing long-hand and print it on the school Banda Machine. High as a kite on the booze-flavoured ink, it was little surprise that I got up to no good.

If you looked very, very carefully, you might have noticed that the first letter of every badly copied news story, teacher profile and sports report spelled out the words "MRS GORDONS TITS". Not for any good reason, except for the incredibly dangerous fact that I was thirteen-and-a-half years old, completely unsupervised, and damn the poor grammar. And she had a cracking pair of knockers.

So impressed was Mrs Gordon with the end result, I was called into her presence one day after school.

"Scary," she told me, her chest heaving in a way that would leave me with issues for decades to come, "your newsletter was quite marvellous."

"Blp snerrrg wum", I said, staring her in the chest.

"In fact, before I hand over the editorial reigns to somebody else," she said, fiddling with the top button on her blouse, "I've got something very special for you."

She got me a box of chocolates. Nice ones, too. I don't know whether this was reward for a job well done, or if it was some sort of come-on.

"Jolly well done, young man. I do hope you keep abreast of further editions."

Ah.

Full, 12-inch celebrity version with a guest appearance from TV's James May HERE
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Thu 13 Aug 2009, 16:40, 1 reply)

LittleSisterCrow and the Pointless RE Lesson
RE / RS was one of those subjects which struck me, and indeed my entire family, as pretty much pointless. It got better as you got older, so by the time you got to about year 8* you actually learned something meaningful about major world religions, and maybe the year after that it started to resemble a philosophy lesson of sorts.

But up until that point? Fuck me, it seemed like a waste of time. My sister and I went to the same C of E primary school**, and I suspect the sheer inutility of the RE lessons there contributed strongly to us both being staunch atheists.

So when we went our separate ways to (distinctly secular) secondary schools, we had hoped that the inane RE lessons would disappear. No such luck. What was one of the first things LittleSisterCrow had to do in her first year?

"Since we've been looking at the story of Jesus throwing the money-lenders out of the temple, I want you all to draw a picture of Jesus losing his temper and evicting them."

Yep. He wanted them to draw pictures of Angry Jesus.

I never saw what my sister submitted, but I'm told that it featured Angry Jesus with big, red eyes, wielding a big stick and breathing fire. I probably don't need to point out that her RE teacher was less than impressed.

*_{About 13 years old for any b3tans unfamiliar with the British system}
**_{Well, tambourine-banging evangelists masquerading as C of E, but there's probably another story in that}
(LongJohnBaldry, Thu 13 Aug 2009, 17:04, 4 replies)